A door between them and the night

Close it gently, now. All the little wanderers are asleep,
in the rags you sewed for them. Age is upon them,
combing their hair, waiting patiently for all the lies
they will have to hear before they make it to tomorrow.

There is just a door between them and the night.
You'd stand watch all the hours long if you didn't need
to sleep yourself, if you could be two: sun and darkly moon.
There is a door in the night, and you go through it to day

And then wake up again. There are lies on your hands,
curled up in the morning, breaking open their pleasant mouths.
All the little wanderers have gone to breakfast. There is a door
in the day, and you go through it fearlessly, thinking how

you will save them all, you will lie them all, you will tie them up
and take them away through the many doors of the night
and the one violent door into day.
posted by Adam at 4:44 PM [edit]

This many words could have snowed

A lot of what we've been taught to love comes pre-packaged with sugar--it's the best buy for your Spanish-speaking eyes. I remember walking on the worst winter night from Colin's house to your house through the snow. I was afraid of you, and a virgin still. A lot of what we have been taught to love is unfinished, and yet we throw our loyalty at it like an unpoisonous snake. A lot of what we love is dead already, and exists only in architecture. I remember running into a bathroom to find you there vomiting away what scared you. I thought medical attention could save you. You were already saving yourself. I'm glad. I'm also out of the picture. A lot of what we have been taught to love is still sneaking around inside me. A lot of it is also lost.
posted by Adam at 1:35 PM [edit]