For C.A.
imagistpoet:
I could try and locate your body.
I could put myself behind your hopeful
eyes; could almost speak
your words. I have taken in impression
after impression. I have lived so long
serrated, in the dusty squalor
of my tired mind.
I try something different.
I breathe in east coast air, true.
I give my little life
to words, true. Frail, fragile
fixed. Instead, rather than—
I let whatever new shadow, new ripple,
egret darting close to my weary skin,
to this window—I watch, from so far away,
as you speak, as we slip.
I am convinced that you,
and the forces that aligned
this,
are made entirely
of those small graces
that we speak of so often,
that unfurl their petals
in deepest hour
before dawn.
the sun is so close
to breaking over
the horizon—
and I am so close to hearing your voice
021413. II
east coast air
in your lungs,
poetry falling from your lips
like petals from a dogwood tree;
soft whispers
of something
that I’ve never known —
Peace
imagistpoet:
Early afternoon, sprawled under the covers
but it’s OK. I swim in books, getting dusty
in boxes.
I picture your heart
in spring wind.
the breezes that
warm my aching bones
and ignite a fire in my heart,
also sweep across the miles
that keep you from me.
021413.
how cruel it is,
to miss something
that has never
been yours.
020613.
the hollowness
in my bones,
how weightless and
impermanent
it makes me,
how imperfect,
how distant from
those that I care for,
how cruel I am
when I am hurt.
if this is the price I must pay
so that they may be
filled to the brim with
the light from
Your words,
the steadiness of
Your love,
(I wish so badly to be as forgiving as You have been to me)
I would choose again
ten times over to be
myself,
in this body,
with this
stray animal soul
that You speak to
so clearly.
