I need your lips

So I'll catch them by their
Silken wings

Mid flight
Riding the wind
Of your words
And mine

Line by line
Stanza by stanza

I walk the world with thoughts of you
In every place I go
Your voice is on the winter wind
Your footprints in the snow
And every tool I try to use to scrape you from my mind
Cuts your name onto my tongue
And beats me till I'm blind
I layed my head upon your knees and breathed the air you breathed
I cut myself when you were cut to know just how you bleed
Now as I walk this empty earth with nothing but a face
To breathe me and to bleed me
Until I leave this place

From this place
With my head on your chest
And your hand wrapped over my arm
I've only ever seen
Half of anything.
Half of the movies
Half of the cartoons
Half of the bedroom
Half of the sky
Half of the sunset
Half of everything;
With my shoulder always blocking one eye.
But I see your hand there with that eye,
And I feel your heartbeat under my cheek
I hear your breath
Smell your skin;
And the half of everything
Of anything
Is made whole
From this place
With my head on your chest.

Never, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?

Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?

Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?

Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!

To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his ****** neck!

Chaotic unveiling
A tangle of desperate heat
And numbing chills

The labored breaths of
Passionate caution

Sweet adventure with a
Grippingly commonplace
Pattern

Noticing each smooth
Imperfection in the
Harsh fluorescent darkness

Secretly conscious of your
Awkward grace in the
Fluid transition of
Angles and sides

The indignation of
Chaste, stolen
Caresses
And-

Too quick

It’s over, fading into
Uncomfortable aftermath

Subtracting yourself
Adding your modesty
Dividing your dignity

And leaving.

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday--
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle--'
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life--
And I see us meeting at the end of a town on a fair day by accident,
after the bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us -- eternally.