Saturday mornings

Perhaps it's something particular to Saturdays that come after a busy week, during which you've been pushing yourself to do too much, and achieving little by your standards. Perhaps it's the warmth of the bed that won't let you leave until the morning is mature. Or maybe it's the crisp air, barely warmed by the autumn sun that sends a tingle through your body as you take deep breaths to clear your head.  What is it then, that unexpectedly opens your soul to the words in a book, and the thoughts they weave send waves of emotion coursing through, your head spins and you gladly fall into a new world... 'And when you do find one, observe with care,' he said to the intern: 'they almost always have crystals in their heart.'

Scheherazade

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
                                         and dress them in warm clothes again.
       How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
            It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
       it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
         how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
                                                                       to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
        we’re inconsolable.
                            Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
                                                     Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

-Richard Siken