You a perfect line,
half a heart
We talk and talk and talk
Yet I can never tell.
Your voice holds me so still
But our hands never meet.
I wish they would.
The news is all tiers
and set to snow.
Your voice is mine somehow,
Bezel set in my head.
It brings me such comfort
to hear my voice thrown
In to loves shape.
A companion dreamt up
to ease my mind.
Will you be so willing
To talk this way come spring?
Why do you humour me?
There's no mirth in it.
I wish there was.
I wish I knew the words
to make you yield.
These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.
Pink and Gold and my favourite blue.
What did I ever do to you?
Breathless with perfection so
that the air still, wet thick does grow.
Forty degrees back behind me leads
the melting blue of work fatigues.
The trees prussian ink spilling
Into the pink of this sky blushing.
No wind to stir the iron rails of train
Up the valley or along the lanes.
The only sound to punctuate it,
is God or something close to bless it.
(I hear him soft in electrical static
I call to them in some blasphemous panic.)
I wonder at the times I've hurt or lied
Or watched my death played out aside.
These hurt things are forgotten now,
The black and white of sacred cow.
Words are lost behind my lips
The way the falling sky does drip?
What events conspired to silly string
The pearl of clouds in spreading wings?
Pain swept away in turning current
The sun the half red eye of serpent!
Manic has my life become tonight
I feel compelled to sacrificial rite.
Watching the sky the healing madder
of surgical scars like insect ladders,
I see now that maybe this is wrong
The sky and days strung out a throng.
This house the windows molten steel!
I would beg for more but it's not real.
I thought I envied the fallow deer
dancing on the hill.
The green of that old bruise
summers drifting pain.
Grass and berry sweet they stalk
The way only prey do.
Eyes wetter and wider than mine,
Slow blinking out low sun.
Their afternoons gilded with finches.
I've watched them waltz,
their fury love by any metric.
Tonight though a different panic.
Not the ironed ears of dog,
or wanton fox, fire in the copse.
The plain old fret of not knowing.
Searching and not seeing her.
Their rendezvous betrayed again
His neck long for air to taste her,
but no quenching for his thirst.
I feel his loss in my sad heart,
I wonder what he'll do with summer now.
The pause and gentle weight,
twisting taut against that line.
When did I surrender?
A white flag that looks red
from up in the pass.
Too late now I suppose.
The cyprus pine vigil backed blue
Salt lying in a grinning smile
The face of summer
to my dying patience.
My back up
Why in Gods name would you?
Just make it quick.
I want it to be over
I'm bored of this now.
It's a short story,
only because I haven't finished it.
the It has teeth
that's why he's long.
We have not long to love - Tennessee Williams