Jason William Hait: A Life in Words
Poems: Page IV
Unison
And she asked me—
“Do you ever dream of music?”
Of course I do.
I dream of midnight blues
Dancing with
Octavian hymns in unison and
They’re not quite right
Not quite right
But that makes them perfect in
Their recognition of the fact
As legs smack
But no one falls
And all are watching.
Can’t help themselves
It puts their lives on proper shelves
To be retrieved by Dewey’s system
Should one desire
Hearts on fire
That deny a dream
That line is false
And they dance and dance and dance
One is unchallenged, the other one fair
And they wake up, shake their heads—
Where are we? Is this home?
And roam again they do,
And then dance again
When others are watching only.
Inevitabilis
Where could I possibly find forever?
Or had it been defeated by never?
I had searched the eyes of children unmet
And lovers who don’t know each other yet.
I had emptied the bottoms of bottles
While a complacent world merely dawdled.
In each instance a terminus was found,
And my countenance was none the more sound.
It was then that I finally found forever
Fall from the sky as if a feather.
It’s in the endings which will never end,
It’s in broken hearts that refuse to mend.
I am uncertain what forever means,
And seek solace in the solitude of dreams.
Keepsake
At dinner
you were kind
enough
to ask about my day
I told you lies
I found convincing
and you ordered a Sprite
You smiled
while waiting for your drink
eyes half on me
half on the plate
half on the waitress
What you hadn’t seen
were the teeth of a bicycle
curled against the pavement
outside our window that afternoon
and orange sirens scooping up
the rider
Your refreshment is tardy
and I say it will be all right
while wondering about the bicyclist
as if he were a locket
around the neck
of someone beautiful
I’ve never met.
Trapped Heart
In a cube—
No, not quite—
But made of hollow ice
With air in the center and boundary
With promise lurking inside
Ventricles siphon from outside
Waiting for the collapse
Such an equilibrium
Is what keeps it
From doing
Just that.
Moratorium
You’re like that bad cover band
Gigging in my neighbor’s garage.
Everyone knows there are rats and filth;
Everyone knows the jargon.
Poets I beg pardon,
Though I will not acquiesce,
Write one more putrid Subway Poem,
And my stomach will not digest.