my gift to you are these few little things
that i have managed to save
like moths who fell asleep in my
care
and
who probably will never wake
preserved in a yellow clothe, folded and placed
in a box beneath my tongue
carefully so as not to disturb the dust on their wings
in case they should
fly again...
(the rustic child’s toy)
morning as blue as the eyes
of god
upon the roof
entrapped in it’s
crisp clutches
love and other
shining, stupid things
teeming below our crunched
bodies
something like euphoria
(or much to much wine)
and
silence finally
watching planes
leave their billowing
impressions on
the flesh
of the sky.
2.(the newspaper clipping)
we sank into the ground
bellow the bridge
and pretended we were
trolls
scaring the
goatlings
that trampled
by
you smelt of oranges
and wood-chips
we
grumbled and smiled
into one another’s
available
skin
to keep
laughter from
penetrating
the web of
fantasy
we were spinning
3.(the photograph)
naked beneath
the togas of wool that
our mothers gave
to us
tears trembling on their
eyelashes
(before
we walked away)
there is now fire dividing the
space between
our salty smiles
neil young-
a tiny voice
tickling the smoky
air
like little fingers
of sound
4.(the letter to yourself)
no contact
aside from
the mingling of
breath
and other
invisible
body things
like the mutual
recognition
of comfort
when was this
but
most
moments
mornings
in
cold that
froze
words
between ear
and mouth, slowing them
like insects,
caterpillars
slugging along
a frosted
branch
imbedding them
in the space
between our cherry
faces.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:24 PM UTC
my gift to you are these few little things
that i have managed to save
like moths who fell asleep in my
care
and
who probably will never wake
preserved in a yellow clothe, folded and placed
in a box beneath my tongue
carefully so as not to disturb the dust on their wings
in case they should
fly again...
(the rustic child’s toy)
morning as blue as the eyes
of god
upon the roof
entrapped in it’s
crisp clutches
love and other
shining, stupid things
teeming below our crunched
bodies
something like euphoria
(or much to much wine)
and
silence finally
watching planes
leave their billowing
impressions on
the flesh
of the sky.
2.(the newspaper clipping)
we sank into the ground
bellow the bridge
and pretended we were
trolls
scaring the
goatlings
that trampled
by
you smelt of oranges
and wood-chips
we
grumbled and smiled
into one another’s
available
skin
to keep
laughter from
penetrating
the web of
fantasy
we were spinning
3.(the photograph)
naked beneath
the togas of wool that
our mothers gave
to us
tears trembling on their
eyelashes
(before
we walked away)
there is now fire dividing the
space between
our salty smiles
neil young-
a tiny voice
tickling the smoky
air
like little fingers
of sound
4.(the letter to yourself)
no contact
aside from
the mingling of
breath
and other
invisible
body things
like the mutual
recognition
of comfort
when was this
but
most
moments
mornings
in
cold that
froze
words
between ear
and mouth, slowing them
like insects,
caterpillars
slugging along
a frosted
branch
imbedding them
in the space
between our cherry
faces.
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