Dawn, little speaks

The world does not
want another face
Rising eternally out of
Clay, or mud,
Or pyrex

I am wearier than I
have ever been

But—-for a moment—-warming in the
kind of dawn that comes once every
2×1000 to the tenth power
millennia

A shredding dawn,
a world drowning in a
Sunkist and blood
swirl—the maw
Of the old and new
Worlds
Swallowing.
One of the vortices we wait
For

I can only think three words a
millennium
I have been cursed from birth

I am every name from history, but some more than others, and only at the tail end of
Every millenium

I can speak into the orange glow that I knew people once, that I wanted people once, that I liked to play

The blood maw swirls again. The window fades out, I am on a playground ride around this place.

I pick three words a millenium. There’s a rhythm—a waltz, a swing on this rough circular path, around a specific school with brownstones and a small charged-looking green courtyard. And a lilt—always a tune carrying through these thin honeycombs of space time.

I know I’m coming back around on the swing again, and there’s a feeling of excitement then fear, fading, recognition, of something as if at the periphery of my image of thought. Something I can never see, like a knot that would allow me to undo all of this.

I get three words on my way back.

Love you __
Her name an incantation that makes my mind Slate tilt a certain way
And the backjangling slightly off round , slight lilt of printer laughing at teacher on the projector light on way around
Me why I

Who goes here

Can’t wait there

Please help me

I love ____

____ help me

I Looove you

Am I dead

Sun does dawn

Let me in

I hate me

Let me out

—