closer
Somewhere
between
the pasta
and the tira mi su, I felt you
half-letting
go of me last night,
as I have half-come, half-
gone from the
start.
All night the moon
rained,
pushing its force
from the west, from the north.
I dreamed of
fire
in my hands
and my mother watched
as I cried.
The morning
whispered, waking us, leg over leg,
feet fastened.
It's
been hours
since your words swept
soft across my
lips, across my
hair as it teased
against your chest.
You
chose your words like a
full-bodied red,
letting them breathe,
drinking
their sounds back in
from my skin.
The
morning is water-logged,
heavy as a pregnant breast.
It spills in
thought, woven
from a string of windflower petals,
falling
to the ground
of you.
20
feb 03 |
water
clock We
count the days
the tears and
wait their coming, lifting
faces to
the
scent of rain before
the anorexic clouds have
plumped with
gray.
A mind
can know that trust
weighs less than doubt
and still it counts.
 We
measure droplets at
a time
we breathe them in
we pour them out to
find
the closeness
making up the distance
isn't close at all.
Nor is the
distance far.
Our passion arms stretch wider
than our Pavlov hearts
allow
and everything beyond them
hums in shades of
background noise,
stirring
everything that is
into the white.
16 aug 03
blndrsep03
| |
lips
The
silence in a scream
I bring to you spilling
its voice around us, under
the warmth of your down quilt tonight,
the silence of a deep glissando
deafens the air it
streams through
a thousand soundless molecules as
we wade the undercurrents
in a waterfall of night. 27
jan 03
|
| the
ocean in me
Last night your sea-colored eyes
were
a black box recording every current of my body,
intensifying,
withdrawing. We’ve only touched the
dull side of
a vivid moon. We coil across each other’s lives;
tuberous
roots of taro
taking water from one, giving sun
to the other. 7:30
a.m. walks in through the
blinds with intention and
cries the simple truth
of our goodbye. Our bodies
serenade the light.
18
jan 03
blndrfb03
|
for
now
Across my face
his lips articulate
the
supple voice of
a kiss. His streams
of consciousness release
into
my speechless rims and I swallow them like
seeds.
Sometimes
they stop behind his eyes and hesitate,
incarcerated
leaves in my storm, his
storm. He is
summer translucence,
blue
amber light
risen from winters
of misperception.
We are heartbeats
never heard
times two
and if
it’s love, I don’t
want to know.
02 jun 03
blndrjn03
|
|
