Crepe paper in the punch bowl
bleeds red into the yellow,
and signs turned down shout
into the floor. One sleeping
reveler seated in the corner
dreams time goes on, voices
screaming against the current
of sound. A storm of movement
still stirs under his lidded eyes,
and he rises, stumbling in
and out of my sight.
In this silence, I’m immobile,
replacing objects in untouched
spots, looking for what might
stay. The air stops. Light
dims and dies at the bidding
of an unseen hand, and I’m
headed home, one hand out
to lead my way.
Filed under: Chaos, Human Nature, Identity, Knowledge, Life, Longing, Musings, Pierre Reverdy, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Thoughts, Writing Experiments
