The Hawk Dining Room 9:44am
When I see The Silver
Light Light Light
on The Atlantic Shore
I know that I am
Safe Safe Safe
from early morning anxiety
involving letting Cats
in & out
Five Five Five
Times
The Tomato-coloured Couch 4:38pm
When I saw
My Shower of Silver Lights
I saw The Figure of Christ
across from Me
I saw that Christ
was enmeshed
with The Light
& I cannot
be contained
I cannot be contained
I cannot
be contained
The Hawk Dining Room 8:00am
There’s a crack
in The Clouds
letting in The Golden Peach
Light of The Sun
above My Neighbour’s Rooftop
and as I write
The Gleam of The Orb
pushes through
to create an arc
on The Wall
to My Back
The Hawk Dining Room 9:30am
The Sky separates
Its Self
at My Horizon Line —
raining wisps of snow
along Its downward edge
— sun breaks through
of course —
to drench the sea
in My Usual
Silver
The Hawk Kitchen Outpost 9:41am
Yesterday I was compelled to listen
to David Bowie’s
“I Am A Black Star”
EYE got creeped out
& then He
Died
The Hawk Kitchen Outpost 11:05am
The Universe
is A Giant Kitty Box
with The Wild Stars
scattered on Our Floor
at The Foot of Our Basement Stairs
— The Cats Who use It
are God
& Those Who Clean It —
Christ
The Hawk Queen Bed, January 8,11:04pm
There’s a New God
On The Block —
She’s outdone, beaten up
The Old Guy
with Her Hair, Dark
in a bun — orange blossom
at Her Ear —
She sits on My Right Shoulder
& tells Me with Her Voice So Dear:
“You Know The Meaning of Life
So You Are A Star —
So Go To Sleep”
The Hawk Kitchen Outpost 5:55pm
God has The Soul of Space
in which to play Her Hand
from Her Fingertips
She can spill & spread
Her Trillions & Trillions of Suns
to let the fertile Ones out —
Those very rare seeds
spawning new worlds
across the countless miles
of Grace
The Hawk West Desk Window 10:22am
This is The Year
I am no longer
The Second Coming of Christ —
instead, or along with —
EYE am An Artist
with The Spirit of Christ
allowing Me to Create
& Create & Create
& Create & Create
& Create
The Hawk Queen Bed 8:52pm
There was a home-made house
once
built of stone
& piled-up floors
built by My Grand Father Bobby Hyde
& I as a child
called it “The Christmas House”
& asked My Mother
when were We going back
“To The Christmas House?”
& now I have My X-Miss Tree
still up
& being ogled
by people
Who call Me an artist
Joanna Gilman Hyde 