My Buried Treasure

The sky is up there
in all its rickety silence and speed,
surrendering the seeds of our daydreaming
and sleepy belonging.

I'm calling you from a room
beneath the street. Its walls
are all alive with lines scratched by poets
and other archeologists of the lateral crash.

There are people here.
They don't know me either.
We have this much in common
and so can smile on account of it.

Dreaming this morning.
Things have started and they've taken
the form of sound, like the roaming
grace of children let loose, like
the destruction preceeding the creation of
another, like the echos I've exhaled
into 10,000 glass jars and hidden for those
who will inherit eternity.

My buried treasure:
A door swinging open on the trust of morning light.
A man with a name sewn inside his hat.
A fork stuck into a wall.

I know the last line of this poem
but don't know how to get there,
except to say,
"Your photograph will never fade."



by jerry gordon
1.29.06
cafe independants, kyoto