Turning

Turning, I am astonished by the complacency of the past.
I have backed into a season of futility,
a bed of screams that are lighter than
the air through which they travel.
Turning, I sense the joy of my deceit
that lies heavily on my spine
as it pushes upward,
justifying neither the weakness
nor the strength
of its source.
I am amazed at my guilt,
yet smile at my sorrow.
Turning, I point at the restless sleep
which finds no more than docile hours.
I have slipped behind those rosy cheeks
which play off the day
in a powdery reassurance.
And yet my dreams are filled with the quiet of the past
while my body is twisted by the savage rage
of so many intolerable notions.
I have turned my head one too many times
upon my pillow.
And all that remain are two tears
the color of illusion.