Jed Myers: Place Poem

I’m traveling in my bed.
If all spins hold, I’ll wake
amid these sheets, by dawn

a good ten thousand miles round
a whirlpool in a whirlpool down
attraction’s great cold funnel—

battened in my elevated
hovel, held in its grid
of I-beams hauled along by crust

east, with street and coast
and continent, all called
here. You’re inside another

hull, another here,
house, whose porch light’s lit
all night. I can hear

those petals of the once-pale-purple
browned and dried hydrangea clack
and scrape against the wall, near

where you might toss, as if
some filament of care had cast
itself out of my core to where

you’re lost—I look for you there
above the walkway near the porch,
before that loyal doorbell

button like a canine’s eye
that will not warn me nor encourage,
maybe cataract-hazed-over….

Or, is that your face
between me and the dresser?
I can’t place you anymore.

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