Saturday, February 27, 2010

Desire, distance, hurt, loss, love and loneliness; the foundation of a poor poet's garden

She left, and I'll never know why
thought I can count the reasons
on one hand.

She left, and every clock stopped,
though shadows grew and the day
marched on.

She left, and now two thousand eight
hundred miles and three time zones
separate our every word.

She left, and I can not seem
to forgive myself, or her,
for letting go.

She left, and though together,
we have never
been more alone.

I wish we were laying,
the the dappled light of noon
blowing lazy curtains in and out.
Gentle bellows languishing as
the yellow rays turn gold
and sparkle with dust.
Curled together, comfort, peace,
while the slow sound of our breaths
call and answer each other
in time with the steady pulse
of the breeze.
Beyond the steady ticking of time,
the clock is stopped
and all the world is here
in this moment, together.
Looking, seeing, knowing
you in the silence. My fingertips
follow the dance of light
and dark across you.
The soft rasp of my dry touch
on your sleeping skin, hands
dancing gently to their own music.

Imperfect desire, one
eyes expressive with tight, down-turned lips,
mascara thick and dark against her fair hair,
a quiet, cautious raccoon.
thin, tone, full lips, empty eyes,
the bored sound of her chewing.
A crane flustered and gawky.
tan, brown, like a wild
impatient hoarse. Breathtaking
in this moment.
dark hair, smokey voice,
a raven, mysteries hidden in
the promises of her smirk and smile
while somewhere, below,
in a Chinese restaurant,
sits my love

I dream
beyond my reach, lives, worlds,
my small impotent hands
are unable to grasp.
Weary of waking, of walking,
of wishing and wanting... always
always wanting
what I cannot, or am unable,
to hold.
A bird is circling in the sky,
calling for its lost mate.
It is the only sound
echoing long after
the rifles crack.
A speck fading up
into the encroaching night.
I know that bird,
though not which one
I am.

The soft bulge, gentle lines
of taut tan skin
descending, the whisper
of secrets murmuring
from the hang
of her black blouse
plunging, my gaze
to the jeans beneath
and the silent silky
triangle of folds
suggested, imagined, desired,


I am helpless, undone,
tied up with all the
strings pulled out.
Soft cotton falling,
a shower, then
a trickle.
Like so many
rain-laden clouds.

I am in love
with love
and I am in love
with pain
because in
the long run
happiness and heartache
become the same.

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