listen.

How many times have I slept past

the ripening young age that morning reaches

when it stretches its fingers through shades and over sills

before its skin ages from golden and warm

to white and pale, when rooms are stuffy

and cold things are forced to sweat

like an apple, green and cool

before it has opened its red eyes

to drop from its tree.

How many times have I heard the song

that sweet, sweet song-

the one that can kill the heart with its sweetness

I set my head down on my old pillows,

and turned in a familiar bed inside a strange room

pretending not to want to listen

to tell everyone else

to listen.

To listen to morning’s hands

and strange echoes

and the thumping- 

of apples to the earth and of soaking hearts

and to bare feet as they beat on bonfire ground.

How many more times 

will I be in strange rooms

listening hard, with hot ears and a burning voice,

trying to melt my mouth and body of stone?