Bipolar
To the cracks on the sidewalk I say, “I’m tired.”
Fine grains of sand in the asphalt mix
flash sharply in my softened vision
and birds are singing
in a peaceful place.
Birds are singing under the shade of leaves;
branches clothed in golden bark
surround and embrace them from every side.
Last night, in the dark, there were arms around me
and coldness did stream from my forehead’s surface
I dared not move, but inhaled the scent
of myself, and the uncanny coolness of night.
And the scent I encountered on another cool day
by a white, pounding fountain in the crispness of autumn
was carried by the wind and brought to my mind
bright colors and bubbles and a childhood dream.
Laughing, screaming faces and the grip of a hand
on my bare, swinging ankles are a childhood dream;
fine grains of sand in the asphalt mix
flash sharply in my softened vision.
To the cracks on the sidewalk I say, “I’m tired.”
