He’d be just like you
if his eyes weren’t melded from fire
and his memories heaps of groaning iron,
with electric outlets for smiles
and rejected car parts for hearts.
he hears them breathing or sighing
with the weight of time.
whispering the names of women he’s forgotten.
They crawled from the back of his skull,
in the shapes of his thoughts--
and in the day,
sleeping in the sunflowers,
or patches of rosemary.
At night, they wander restlessly,
and he hears them,
how they keep him up at night,
grazing on God knows what by starlight.
He searches for their footsteps
when the sun finally rises—
they cannot possibly tread lightly—
but he never finds a print.
He invites the world into his house,
throwing parties through the night
in hopes to kill the clatter.
Oh, disfigure those beasts with something,
if the music cannot mute them!
Blind them with someone else’s memories,
the bright ,crisp colors from an Argentinean’s heart ,
the sad, murky shades from a Czech man’s brush.
But some days there is silence,
And he cannot explain the change—wine, humidity?—
when he can lie beneath the wisteria vines
watching the soft green glow of leaves
and he may finally forget
about these metal sculptures
that gnash their rusted mandibles, or gently
tap their copper tusks against his bedroom window,
waiting, loyally, patiently.