where your lips meet

       (unmeet)

     :

there is day ;

there is night    .

a something quietly poem does

touching through new lips
sound and says

a something slim
wristed glasses hair
darkly which bunch
around the shining edge

of her cheek

(moon scarred by hard youth) perhaps

which makes me smile
suddenly without
thinking to smile

.

blue inside feels:
rough from the
groove up shaven
closely to fresh
air stings over cool

–skull and neck;

where i wish
my hand could become

a certain smoke
of tense opaqueness

unfolding a flower
in sharp city nights

the enormous groan
of my soul;

and sleep in your dark forest
a tactile brace of slender light  .

(   i               love                  you              will           never                know      )

i miss you are dead
somewhere
dead maybe

you were alive once
unknown
,but knowing  . how

like it feels to dark within
the instant upon looking
through wet neatness of
glass onto the rain

where a city is

and say, "because it stops for no one."

what writes dies,
saying itself
in dark little letters;

for a moment it
on bright screens where
it lives
(even though it dies)

the instant of the moment
that it's borne
on the eyes of others

into dying again
as they feed on the
specters in

books     .
              .
                   .

           .


                              .

"After we die the only real thing left of us, the only real fragment of the person that we were, is not the children we had, not the pictures taken of us, not the random trinkets we gathered over our lives–it's what we wrote down, what we said about ourselves. That lives and breathes. That speaks beyond our lips to say at any moment after, just as we were in that moment. Writing then is the very serious work of living. It is the chronicling and preserving of ourselves–it is the task of immortality.

And like all such tasks it ultimately fails. Only, it fails more accurately."

who speaks?
(that i should hear)
whose own body
is my voice.