dampness. Jasen Sousa

      as a ceiling

      that sleeps on top of me

      with the weighted pressure

      of those who have knocked

      on my bedroom door once

      and never returned.

      A half-made bed.

      A half piece of toast

      covered with nothing,

      but artificial truth.

      I share an empty coffee cup

      with the woman

      who has yet to tell me good morning.

      I still kiss her goodbye,

      wish her a good day,

      and tell her that I will see her soon.

      DAMPNESS

      Sheets from a restless summer night

      stick like American Cheese

      to the knees, to the thing that pees.

      Where the air is too hot to move

      and cover me, bashful breeze.

      Skin tickled and teased, coated

      with missed opportunities of yesterday.

      Parts of last night’s dream hang

      on the back of my bathroom door

      inside of a towel that begs

      to keep its feet on the ground, to walk

      without sound.

      Birds hidden in trees

      train me how to listen.

      Lowered blinds on adjacent windows

      teach me how to wonder. I follow light

      like others follow night. I move fast,

      sun rises slow. I’m anxious to go, so,

      walkways and sidewalks

      will feel my trails first

      and remember them before

      they get covered in cluttered layers

      of misdirection.

      I am next to him, side-by-side

      with the man who delivers newspapers

      to empty lobbies, trying not to disappear

      as the day goes on like puddles in the street

      left by 5:00 A.M. sprinklers.

      FAMILIAR HANDS

      I know by the way Eastern White Pines dance

      on my ceiling in dawn,

      by the way the sky opens her grey eyes.

      I know by the way showers behind my walls

      erupt like opened fire hydrants,

      by the 747’s blinking red lights

      that appear in my window

      every morning at 4:50.

      I know by the way the 96 bus releases a big breath

      before it’s ready to lift people to work, by the elevator

      ding called by the overnight security guard

      who lives across from me.

      I know by the way the maintenance man’s wheels sink in cracks

      of the foundation rolling away from the trash shoot,

      by the way it doesn’t feel right

      to be here on my back any longer.

      I know by the way distant doors down the hallway

      open and close, by the smell of diri kolé ak pwa that crawls underneath my door.

      I know by the taste in my mouth

      and by the sand that stacks itself

      in the corner of my eye

      that it is time

      to begin my day.