wind skirts the wharf
locks me up in whirling
circles, circles.
lost as I am, girl, speck
a sugared dot on earth
the dirt rises
two soft eyes blink out,
a head of curled fur.
nesting leaves, thoughts.
travelling through the glass
I push my hands out.
the air. oh the air.
paper songs, brief singing.
your poems fall silent;
all I hear is flat
flattered notes.
Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Repentance
Scales fell from Saul's eyes when
he repented his transgressions.
Not for me, the knee-bent
sucking up.
My eyes are scaled over thickly
by my own hand.
The wombs I move in are dark but I see
with the keen eye of a guarded mind
my logic always cocked.
he repented his transgressions.
Not for me, the knee-bent
sucking up.
My eyes are scaled over thickly
by my own hand.
The wombs I move in are dark but I see
with the keen eye of a guarded mind
my logic always cocked.
Regrets
Memories toss and spill across
my clattering tongue as I open
us again.
It still feels wet -
the paint on the rooms of those last moments
when you almost kissed me,
your mouth along the air but past me
and I recoiled like a shy sun into clouds.
My face dusky, my breath damp,
a catch and your pleas a hinge to hang on it.
Sometimes our conversations feel
like old notes pulled loose from
a journal;
Shoved there in haste, stolen
minutes dreamed into their husks.
I want a vessel to our past;
I want to cross the taut second to your kiss
and see what it looks like
when we travel in our words, further
than we did.
my clattering tongue as I open
us again.
It still feels wet -
the paint on the rooms of those last moments
when you almost kissed me,
your mouth along the air but past me
and I recoiled like a shy sun into clouds.
My face dusky, my breath damp,
a catch and your pleas a hinge to hang on it.
Sometimes our conversations feel
like old notes pulled loose from
a journal;
Shoved there in haste, stolen
minutes dreamed into their husks.
I want a vessel to our past;
I want to cross the taut second to your kiss
and see what it looks like
when we travel in our words, further
than we did.
The Morning After
I used to write love poems
the morning after.
Filled with good intent,
a curious, creeping
delusion of having grasped something
intangible
unknowable till then
would beat my heart
to pulp until I had to grab
the sticky organ and daub the words in,
indelible.
Make something lasting.
It was some time before
I gave this habit up.
It took a few leavers to squeeze the
need out of me.
Or not the need, but the compulsion;
dulled and muddied by the inevitable
renege, apology, pall of
backing slowly off.
As though I were a corpse
they'd brought to life
in the night's light, but in the morning
their realisation at the loathesome tint of grey
around the mouth they kissed
threw them backwards with a shock
they could not let me see
in full, just yet.
Last night, there was a little opening made
in me.
I am scared to see it there;
it looks so tender and new, a winter bud
and the world's cold.
I am drinking tea at your computer
while you sleep, my hands alight with the
fire of fear. My keystrokes falter.
I wonder if your hand flexes, if it grips
the upswing of another shoe
dropping.
This is not a love poem.
No, this is not.
the morning after.
Filled with good intent,
a curious, creeping
delusion of having grasped something
intangible
unknowable till then
would beat my heart
to pulp until I had to grab
the sticky organ and daub the words in,
indelible.
Make something lasting.
It was some time before
I gave this habit up.
It took a few leavers to squeeze the
need out of me.
Or not the need, but the compulsion;
dulled and muddied by the inevitable
renege, apology, pall of
backing slowly off.
As though I were a corpse
they'd brought to life
in the night's light, but in the morning
their realisation at the loathesome tint of grey
around the mouth they kissed
threw them backwards with a shock
they could not let me see
in full, just yet.
Last night, there was a little opening made
in me.
I am scared to see it there;
it looks so tender and new, a winter bud
and the world's cold.
I am drinking tea at your computer
while you sleep, my hands alight with the
fire of fear. My keystrokes falter.
I wonder if your hand flexes, if it grips
the upswing of another shoe
dropping.
This is not a love poem.
No, this is not.
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