You held me in a
downtown park
with stern hands
that conveyed not warmth but safety,
a roof,
a full tummy.
It was
April
and the birds and the bees and the soil and the flowers and the trees and their blossoms could no longer contain their secrets.
Today it all came back to me.
and now I think I understand
In this strange limbo of absence and bereavement, there is no wine or religion to mollify us. For will we meet again some distant morning, as the insistent birds encroach upon our forlorn thoughts, and the dew that springs forth from our eyes is that of our joy? But here in the midst of happiness come the tides of grief, so tell us: what is this to not know but hell…
https://ello.co/sirmorose/post/zowlan6rt0zdh1uor_nbbw
I wanted life to be the long, pleasant evening that stretched before me. But I turned a corner. I got lost. Winter changed to spring. And from her tender womb this revolution – the flowers, the colours, the serendipities of love. But it was in this great upheaval then that I found you.
An eye on the clock. Once half-hearted. I would have loved you. On borrowed time. And when I’m upon the moon’s harsh tiding, I will say I lose near nothing in its dying. Only one half heart. One eye lent to the clock. Though what dark foreboding seeps to the other side.
(…I was on that knife’s edge
of fear and no fear,
wondering what had so bruised me,
so split me open,
to this frantic morning sea
that rushed
the sweet breath of everything
to my lips…)
Mine was a quiet indulgence,
I waded in the waters of her discoveries,
entranced,
the quickly disappearing
hours on end,
only then to find myself,
again.
Last night I slept in the twisted sheets of wanting.
Though I wish to be, as
when the sun is at its peak,
in deeper devotion to all beautiful things,
without bringing them to my lips,
or chain them in servitude about me.
And should there still must desire be –
be only now in the muted streams of yearning,
or in those odd nights,
and in those odd dreams with
laughed-off meanings.
