Iron

[Lawrence]

“You are a red balloon
The earth no longer wants.
As gravity loosens its grip,
You feel yourself ascending-
No more than a shrinking drop
Of blood to onlookers below.”

He sighs. Tonight,
Sleep won’t be seduced.
At least, not that kind.

Outside,
The moon is an old light-bulb
Flickering beneath smoke.
Sometimes, if the clouds are thin,
It peers dimly through as if
It were dying, reaching for
Its last words, only to slip away.

But the earth,
The earth is alive with music-
Winter air, tires on snow,
The scent of pine even
Rings through night like a note-
Filling him with the weight of life
And dread and memory-
The empty chair, the
Footsteps and turning of a lock.

He looks out of the window-
“Only this could leave me
With such heaviness.
It’s taking-"

And suddenly, sleep arrives.
Not with the lightness of
A red ballon, but
A slow sinking, concrete tied
To the soul; blood becoming iron-
Sending him into the waters of dreams.