there is all this tissue before
poorly guided fingers Reach
turning stones in their wake
freeing half-formed ideas
pools of inhibitions and
Fear and --
there is a Sunset
cheek-to-cheek with Missouri hills in the distance, tickling wildflowers with
there wasn't much of a struggle, only
a few words exchanged, one
shot fired and
no one died.
my body remains, but I lost
my dominant hand, my left
I learn to write again --
my hand grows steadier
with practice each
a little more to the right
than I used to
& the view from my window has changed.
from the first kiss of the day
to the last kiss at night
we smirkingly wring the grey waters of
Logic & Reason
from our Passion
(so that it smells like
deeply rooted in
Faded 'I love yous'
Nostalgic 'We've done this befores'
Hopeful 'Let's do it agains'
where will your eyes lay me ?
on the edge of our bed, where years have folded our skin together
in a filter of light
or in some dark place that has yet to find us
in the damp afterplace of things unresolved--
I picture you turning,
my transgressions braided, trailing behind as your steps grow more and more sure.
these little horses we have yet to
beige sits in your skin, layers in
various shades. sometimes I mistake it for
pink, in the shadows
last night I had a poem inside me, I lost it on the highway
in the Christmas of red and white continuous light
on either side
there were other thoughts, in other cars - their webs spun & ready
the wind beat against my window, holding the tail of it --
"there's still time"
but I just looked back at you, driving.
hands sure, your unsmiling lips somehow
and remembered this sizzling, poppin' n' fizzing
and could have written
pages and pages and instead