her blanket

i have the thinking man's disease.
got a run in my stocking
that shines like a burning cross
in the clearing of leafless trees,
and a hole in my pocket
only my ring finger knows about.

i'm right now filled with vision.
my chest, a broad basin
pockmarked by the bombshells
of confidence and hope,
inside my gears are hauling lifeblood
as my ticker talks to my noggin.


i grow restless, then weary, then wild.
wind-socking the gales
of connections and leads and leaps and
Ah-Ha, but, Ah-Ha! but Ah-Ha, Nope!

i like to think the answer is always yes.
that questions have to rotate and revolve,
by turn and degree and instinct,
dancing blind for the long while
between sight, loss and revelation.

i'm distracted most of the time by all this.
yet i've never met a crying baby
i couldn't somehow infect
with a quieting foray of thought,
by simply locking eyes,
and i've gotten to wonder if i think too loudly.

when i'm out on the street, i'm on the ocean.
when i'm out on the ocean, i'm on a cloud.
when on a cloud, i ride my way home
to the woman i love,
everytime.

she sees me in periods of these cycles
now so widely spread that we payoff
to miracle our bodies remember each other,
but they do,
everytime.

i think sometimes to say to her,
'think of it as a war
and i'm off in that unknowable field.'
but i never say this---because she is
the only cure to my thinking ailment.

when i see her, the war is over.
my mind is then blank and quiet,
and i become a blanket
that she wraps herself up with
and holding goes walking barefoot
into the chilly thought beguiling night.