© 1996 Dave Awl
I know where you are because
silly you, you forgot to cut that cord
that bound us years ago, before you moved
on. And even halfway across the world
when you turn over in sleep
the springs inside me squeak. Your mouth
is partly open, even now: your breath escapes,
tiny ghost of you, and comes to me as I lie awake
and whispers stories of you and what you do,
who you know, where you go. I send it back
when it's talked itself out, with small
coins and presents to hide about your person,
under the floorboards of you or the loose earth
behind the barn,
guilty windfalls you'd never suspect the origin of.
You'd never get through the day without
the things I send you, though you'd never dream it.
And how many wooden boxes have you opened?
How many worn ribbons have you tossed
away over your shoulder?
How many hills of earth stand between
you and the place where the sun rises,
drawn by horses of earth and blood,
horses that come a bit closer each night
to cresting the horizon of your sleep?