a laundromat afternoon
and no one is
safe
from my imaginings
(such fragile things!)
these sneaking
tendrils of
need
painting strangers
with a soft
brush
nerves aflame
until our time's up
please pardon
but
might we discuss
the task of turning
me to us
in moments passed
unmasking trust
I know it's fast
but fear we must
amass these
passions
stacking up
our insides
asking
to combust
a past that's
lacking
proper touch
these forms in which
our dust is stuck
a loneliness
outlined as such
I'm much too much
or not enough
the dryer dings
so I stand up
silently
and exit
The coming dawn,
a heavy drowse
of fog and beach's loss
of memories from yesterday
where summer's laid
its final pall
o'er castles washed aground.
And as each footprint
leaves its mark
and just as quickly fills,
avert my eyes
in time to see
undulating shoreline dunes,
the chevron wings of gulls.
I contemplate
in shrouded light
while I alone eclipse
where sand crabs scuttle
in the wake
of early morning mist.
And how my mind
is set adrift
like waves that crest ashore
without the anchor
of their roots
when low tide pul
In the first instance
I didn't say it
Because I wasn't sure
Some people have endless hearts
Mine is a cloistered nun
Weak and old and finite
It must be selective
In the second instance
I couldn't say it
Because I was afraid
Some people have iron hearts
Mine is of frozen glass
Cold and sharp and brittle
It must be protected
In the third instance
I should have said it
The time was never right
Some people have reckless hearts
Mine is a sentinel
Silent and watchful, wary
It remains collected
In the fourth instance
I could have said it
Because it's all I knew
Some people have calmer hearts
Mine is kindling aflame
Scorching, consuming, joyful
Wh
Let the stars make their protest;
let them trip us
roughshod and unkempt -
Orion
is at our side tonight,
and the dust from long ago
settles on this side
of heaven.
The air is spangled here -
it rests upon us
in a silver tallith
unravelling across the vaulted
sky and lingers where
our fingers clasp.
We have lost the moon,
that wanton keeper of lies
and wishes
only virgins make in summer;
and night,
that naked warrior,
blushes in this unkempt heat
and holds our senses
hostage.
I should have written more poetry about you. by 91816119, literature
Literature
I should have written more poetry about you.
Lost in your embrace
into your chest she collapsed,
caved
against your collar-bones
weighed down by stones
in her pockets.
And her hair filled your eyes
tickled your neck
with her lips,
shuffled the deck
while she unbuckles your favourite trousers
the darkness swallowing
the discarded clothes
to the sound of swallows
congealing in the dawn.
And you, a frightened fawn
stark naked, captured by her eyes
ribs interlocked and fingers
heaving in the tide of bedsheets,
push and pull -
stand tall
for me, stand tall, for
me, my
peace of mind
tease out the knots
in our heartstrings.
She won't love another
she won't cut your words
from her walls;