The Bench by Amber Rose

A current like a noise machine through sleep.

I find myself here with you beside me

Sitting here while the fall breeze blows through me

In the distance I can hear waves crashing

My toes warm; curled in the warmth of the sand

The smell of your perfume drowning my nose

As soon as I see your face it all fades

I can’t bring myself to wake from this dream

Grabbing your hand trying to hold on tight

The black hole grows stronger pulling me back

Eyes closed tightly memorizing your face

I picture the rusty old bench once more

Memories of you rushing through my veins

I scream your name as your fingers lose grip

Your snow colored hair is the last I see

Now these four walls surround me I can’t breathe

I try to remember it’s all a dream

But the tears flowing taste so salty real

The sting of reality invades me here

Ticking and tocking another year by            

Shadows become the essence of your face

Things we once enjoyed ruined by this fate

I sing alone in this dark dreary room

Praying you back for one minute longer

Cold sweats wake me as I shout out your name

A sweet memory of you turned to sour

Sometimes I go there in hopes to find you

Only to realize the sky is your home

Looking for you only makes things harder

Eyes heavy you grant me peace to dream more

____________________________________

Over Greenland

BY PETER CAMPION

A current like a noise machine through sleep.

Blue lichen fields. Mossed boulders. Waking up

to ice cubes cracking in a plastic cup

and voices (“awesome for the Hong Kong branch

. . . well, most of all we miss our daughter . . . ”) I still

see it: the climb up slate as runnels spill

from some bare misted summit like a source.

Whatever sense this dream might make

to others. And whatever when they wake

they also have been dreaming. Rivers of faces

down hallways, merging, as desires mesh

and fissure. Cash for clothes or arms or flesh.

And if there is no towering sublime

where all comes clear to all, no final climb

through cloud, like some old Bible illustration:

how could that ever stop the current flowing

out of the glass at JFK: skin glowing

plumb and peach as we walk inside the sun