I seek grace in pinpoints,
the pricks that awaken me
from London traffic,
parks strung with kites,
my alarm clock.
With spoons and matches
I feast on a fire escape, squint
at a varicose moon; a rubber cord
coiled tight around my arm
turns everything dark.
Don’t tell me
this isn’t freedom;
I’ve sat on a braided rug,
rolling my teeth between
two fingers, making love
to the stars.
Copyright © 1999 Seth Abramson.
