A jig would do my eyes to the flickering rhythm of your form, a light that pauses, and dims …though not in weakening, but to surge with the strength of your flame.
I always felt unworthy in those halls. The staid sitting down to conjure. The slavish dedication to forms. The harsh fingers screeching across the chalkboard. I’ve come here now to see, for she must kiss too my eyes and privy me beyond the blue hills of knowing.
Timid sun, let her out, from behind the shadows where joy lies, let my ears & eyes be the stomping grounds for her smiles & laughter.
Stripped for me your beauty upon the vines, but how loudly the birds wept at midnight; at 3am echoing that men are but brutes, and only but the songs of love refine them.
Father, To my ears, you Made no sense, Would you upbraid A man for his cleavings and then in his mourning? That “A man loses all that he would love.” But he is no callous crow; who would that dance upon the stones of his friends? But in your smirk – A subtler compass showed:Continue reading “X57”
In the quiet hours after leaving it came back to me. Spilled out of me. Bittersweet on my lips. The tall buildings. The shadowed streets. I have wagered it all. Lost it all. Found myself richer in the morning.
The Delaware lies there: raw and open, uncountable silver coins glistening in the sun. There’s no mundane existence to parcel; for pass now the highway, a lonesome church – a flower here, a flower there, the dying flames of memory.
When from indigo to grey I asked would her love be guaranteed: on some fictional Tuesday. Her silence to me has given no assurances. For in the wrinkle of time I will fall from what I cannot lose. But how many our wondrous moments today? Though salubrious to my eyes, I err in counting.
Your stern hands (pooling in black memories) yet tender in a garden, of crotons… and iguanas, and hummingbirds (…though plagued upon, my boyish “depravity”…), but hidden now in every flower. I remember you.
The streets are empty. I see the bridge out in the distance. On the other side, hemmed in by the sea, the hard sprawl of roofs, and city clocks, and church spires. In this briefest of moments I am poised upon wild reckonings of love and light, and I am thinking of you.