i awake to begin in the trying again
it is the why of the matter
our feet endeavor to touch cold floors
never quick to accept
the inevitability of gravity
the machinations of blood and bone
conspiring to live or perhaps
have the courage to die
but not this day
all this before the coffee pot
there are mornings i find
artfully packaged tins of film at my door
tied with simple brown string
stacked in a box made from stained glass
tagged with the human experience
of a man unaware of his own divinity
i eagerly mount them to my reel to reel
light switch off curtains closed
the bleak consistency of a dark theatre
waiting for the light to tell me how his planets were hung
the projection begins
a flood of the human condition
you leave a stand up bass in the corner
for a soundtrack
and stars in canisters for eating during intermission
each image opened from an apothecary chest drawer
where you keep every pain, love, and sensation
my seat floats through the screen into the museum you have built from poetry
a gallery of words rotund
each stone is a line of your thoughts
we patrons have contributed to build
a square bench in the center of your world
perpetually making room for one more
we revolve clockwise as you spin us backwards into your time
we artfully wax on about dying
but you wrote all this
so we could sit
read
appreciate
and live