top of page

Douglas Cole 

Marveling at the Thought That I Do Not Yet Exist

The moths rise
     from the garment,
and the few strands left glow,
     goodbye my friends—so

I stop mid-moment here,
     the light almost arriving,
and catch the gull cries
     echoing off the buildings,
the city opening its windows,
     opening its thighs—

how the face of the deep
     and the shy moon both
ride the watery black river
     and the cool jade sky
and always had a home
     in your sleeping mind—

one flight after another
     taking off, circling up,
all those invisible threads
     of dreaming passengers
sliding shades down over their eyes.

bottom of page