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Evan Stephens
Poems
Apr 2021
6:15 am
It is six fifteen in the morning
when you call me,
worried that I'm not well.
I hold you in a little tired slice
of choke-glass blooming
in an smear-eyed hand -
I face you with all my blotches,
try to splint the break,
to be where you are.
Maybe you're right -
your love undoes me.
The hours are pauses, aches,
each more or less intolerable.
If my heart slumps away
one of these smoked spring nights,
an unbeating gore-stump,
carry me back to Dublin
& spread my ash-seed
in Iveagh Gardens,
where I carelessly left a dream
among the cane apple husks.
Drink whisky
& recite one of the hundreds
of poems I sent you
to the water-ruined statue
near the rose cage;
maybe someday you'll be curious,
and find the ones I never sent,
filled with sorrow's rennet,
sour-salted, reeking of rain,
retch-cairns
to the halved honeycomb-husk
it seemed like we were becoming.
So of course I both live and die
when your ****** chime
breaks my false, papery day:
I love you above all things,
even now, when you turn half away -
I don't think you will turn back -
but are you really done here?
Are the white lilies really dead
in the bleachy vase?
This is not what I wanted -
the black wing, a door closing -
I am living the wrong life.
Written by
Evan Stephens
44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)
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