Even if it was from the foam of hallucination,
it was unhealed horror. My distance
& distorted vision handled the long park well.
I stared at sober daisies
as bicycles smashed against sunlight, disappearing
into a choir of oak trees. Sudden mortality.
I tasted an orange & rubbed my cotton clothes.
What will I do during this part of the season,
be calm & claim it doctorless?
Warm quartz wind will become smoke,
& someone might meet me in the ghostís garden
where the heart doesnít expire.
Iíll bring a thick blizzard of intrusive thoughts.
Noise & then more noise.
Nowhere near sound, & closer to fully jaded music.
I donít need so many night-wires across sleep.
I woke again to the steam of living,
seeing clearly in the dark. A violent impulse of nature
& vague strands of forgiveness.
This is the kind of day when vowels haunt me.
I donít recognize the space of my choice.
Sweetness, come & drizzle down an idle history.
In the unraveling dream, I donít know where
I placed my glasses, or dropped the dragonís egg.


Terrell Jamal Terryís poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Volta, West Branch, Whiskey Island, Alice Blue, Washington Square Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Vinyl Poetry, and elsewhere.