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Wednesday, October 9, 2013

365 Poems: Sleeping with Stephen King

 Day 282
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Not those works. Mine. Like, right here. 

Right. Here.

And some more about the bookcase.

I Slept with Stephen King

Last night -- the wine, the hour, the want? --
I became quite small, and took refuge
in the crowded livingroom bookcase,
slipping between the covers, the dark
complete and complaisant,
and the stories became my dreams
where I could climb with Krakauer, Everest
full of snow and death above us,
a summit calling us to come,
come touch the sky,
for even women can --
right, Anne Morrow Lindberg? -- she
cries and flies and writes her way
before us, where stands the great
and mighty Ozymandias, and Shelley
and I bow before it, and laugh,
and he takes my hand, and
dance a reel, McMurtry and I, but the music
has ended at this last picture show,
the plains wind blows through
the open roof, the stars
should be high above us;
but it’s full dark, no stars,
and oh, Stephen, take my hand,
stand by me;
I don’t like this hotel, the hall, these rooms
are cold and dark and I pull a sheet
over my eyes, folding in on myself,
and slip the words between
the pages of a battered notebook --

and dream on.

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