A strange bird in Walter Sisulu, South Africa. Strange because I can’t tell which.Apparently, I’m never going to be done with memories.
Even when it’s dark, a dim light pierces in
Even when the mood in the room is still, breeze sweeps in, a strange breeze
When there is hope of the morning
When there is much to do
How does one close eyes? How does one go to sleep?
All open eyes in the night don’t weep
All open eyes in the night aren’t afraid
Some may paint, plan, or pray. Some just climb from one thought to another.
Some think sleep might kill their night. Ferocious, ambitious, sincere night.
Some splash the time on the air
Some splice the air into quarters and see them as musings and blow them into blisters, blisters of each such night so that the question remains.
How does one go to sleep?
It takes an open heart to open another
A presence, rather than an alarm, to awaken the other
A slang, and sometimes a misunderstanding, to bring the other closer
A voice, sometimes nasal, to get the other going
A move to get the other dancing
A mood to have the other joking
And lots of love to make 333
A home the other would like to return to
Those few and close ones would know the girl who made me do what would never have happened without her, yes, all of the above, yes, dip-tea