(Prefer to hear it read aloud? Click here!)
Just a little taste of spring:
Hands jerking over rosebuds
Wheeling inside a weightless wind
The slender self would flood
Numbers, sunlit fall
Without winding, nor binding no
Not this kiss, for that’s all it is
A kiss and a thunder so
The flower smiles today
Before the morrow’s sunless yoke:
The higher they be howling
The sooner sets the stroke
And age, it cries out for the coy
For youth knows yet the blood,
and time the wisdom of the sleepless
knows the quiet of life caught in the bud.
A man hangs his hat in that corner
where once we slept together
an ignorant or discontent foreigner
to our dislocated nether.
No one knows what happened
to the images our jury pardoned.
It was not always rainy when you came.
There were moments, tucked into our night
we found shelter in our tender shame
knowing neither would ever fight
for all the stories Donne read within
that little corner of our skin.
No one forgets—
not even the man, uncapped, in grey
strolling through space time bid offset
frustrated and sweating through the summer decay
praying for the breath that weaves
through the door, but out the window leaves.
It’s never enough to walk the walk.
The walk springs heels
heels spring teeth
and the subtle lines–
grace and poise–
they sink their teeth into the eyes
spun in lies routinely filed
for the heart:
flesh always leads astray.
Flames of her passing
stream the silence between
breathless twines of human grace,
the air, her plane–the smooth fall
among the flesh,
a look to pin the longing touch,
thirst for the flight they cannot share.
Merely human, cries the hush
of lights along her occupation–
no remedy for the pale drip
her candle set upon the choir.
Night lies in the dismount.
Where you touched me–silk,
the milk of our desire,
yoked yearning from the ilk:
heart–they called it fire–
the infinity of which might host
ashen fractions of the passion, sired
by a touch, a look unseen by most
unbound by sea or land–
the knowing when I sleep
you breathe beside this silent hand,
and I am no stranger, too far, too deep.
Tomorrow, a more fantastical post. Today, a short dose of the poetic:
Rose petals drift
perilous bedside seas–
her breathless touch.
Night gown nonsense–
heat beckons through wood and wind
wild by moonlight.
Note: Don’t forget to check out my guest blog appearance on Jessica Kristie’s “Inspiring Ink” segment today! I may be talking fantastic tomorrow, but today, I’m delving into the imagination…
Dawn-lit lovers tell of Indian summers,
the name and shape of which are lost
to caresses of cabaret visions,
the Auburn night that host
the look that chains that sky unto the post
between grains of fleshed collusion–
she sings still in toast,
to the figure of our delusion.