Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Spinning Time

Here, hold the end of this line.
I want you to.
I know you do.

See how thin and fine it is?
Hold that line.

It feels thick sometimes, it feels large
and robust with codes of glowing and
I could twine it up into my hair
and wear it like a tangled web of gems
and whispers.

I see it wind around trees and buildings as I let
it unfurl.
Look, there!
It knows where to go,
it is
coming to you.

Some days the line feels vague and small
and I hold on tighter
and wait until we speak what it needs and it
widens and breathes and stretches again.

But even when I'm not holding on as tight as I should
and I know that you can't
because all the dark marching
has flattened you out
it seems to stand on its own...

Singing and winding
and spinning on pause
on a loom we know to find
when we can.

A Cry From the Pond

You keep telling me in silence
in your nonchalant non-response that
I left you unrefined
your light fallen out of the socket
and the track you were walking on kept pulling
and rustling.

Well I couldn't have fixed that.
My needle and thread were built from
the worst leftover steel
and I needed that for patching my own
ripped skin up.

You were the worst cliche of teenage notebooks;
you were a scribbled-in-margins adjective
and never around long enough
to break out in a rash of sentences.
I feel now that I read you on a bus
and somehow smeared the fine print
and mistook your little wave
for a kindness.

I mistook your little wave for an invitation
to give you some words,
when all you wanted
was the cheap trick of delivery
and an easy saunter back for seconds.

I could be wrong;
there's always that.
But I bet every girl you've eaten breakfast with
says those same words
right before she's staring at your crumbs
and an empty chair.