Somnambulist to a Friend
Lately, I've been walking through rooms searching for the variations of Bach or Mozart. I've heard them slide up walls and under furniture. Last October, I walked to the garden for potatoes. Small moonstruck voices singing in five rows. I couldn't get back to the house by myself. I've walked into mirrors and climbed out windows. There has been blood. Relatives want me to see a doctor. They're afraid I'll walk or fall from their lives. They don't understand. I tell them, "When I rise, I rise from intricate silences or rude conversations, from nightmares, from disheveled bedclothes to walk with other walkers, to even walk with the dead. I walk in a place where eyeless birds fly the boundaries, where the moon never escapes. I walk the night air inhaling mist, swallowing stars."
With recent work in Chariton Review, Harpur Palate, Midwest Review and Unbroken, I also have published a co-translation of Finnish poet Pentti Saarikoski's long poem, "Dances of the Obscure" (Logbridge-Rhodes Pr.) and two poetry chapbooks ("Bottom Dog Pr." and "Owl Creek Pr.," respectively). After thirty years at Kent State Univ. library, I now live on the shore of Lake Erie in Ohio with my artist wife.