Chiarscuro: The Days

The days succeed
as pulleys

carrying this
and that
across the fine
synaptic edge.

My skin is the fulcrum
of the sun and moon.
All day, in weariness,
I dodge the delicate missiles
not meant but meaning
to kill.

At night
my dreams
are massive retaliation.
They grow like mushrooms
on the bark of daylight.

I am sustained
by this ecology of dreams.
This other, this
daylight noise
is what I do

to launch my dreams like obsessive arrows
aimed at my destroyers:
those I hate
and those I love
alike.

1970s