The loving stretch of your cloudy fingers,
your welcoming cob-web eyes.
How they haunt,
shake salt from the limb,
sweep up leaves in courtyards, and
carry their eclipse to the brink of me.
Tree’s circumcised by gardener time
poke forks at you ,
scrape your soft full plate
with the chafe of spidering knuckles.
Everything the flavour of sun-set is a plea.
What can I do when the wing of you
has nothing to say
but fall in reverse,
have you no pity,
you do nothing but sleep, yawn
and blink back your triumph.
Where are the places
I might squeeze you
into submission:
windows only take in so much.
Just once I’d have you secede at my feet,
break bread with the best of me;
release this enthralled impatience.
I starve for some light conversation
but you practise your zen enchantment,
practise it right in front of me
day after day after day.
Show mercy.
Crush me,
do something.
I want you to fall.
MChallis © 2015
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
The loving stretch of your cloudy fingers,
your welcoming cob-web eyes.
How they haunt,
shake salt from the limb,
sweep up leaves in courtyards, and
carry their eclipse to the brink of me.
Tree’s circumcised by gardener time
poke forks at you ,
scrape your soft full plate
with the chafe of spidering knuckles.
Everything the flavour of sun-set is a plea.
What can I do when the wing of you
has nothing to say
but fall in reverse,
have you no pity,
you do nothing but sleep, yawn
and blink back your triumph.
Where are the places
I might squeeze you
into submission:
windows only take in so much.
Just once I’d have you secede at my feet,
break bread with the best of me;
release this enthralled impatience.
I starve for some light conversation
but you practise your zen enchantment,
practise it right in front of me
day after day after day.
Show mercy.
Crush me,
do something.
I want you to fall.
MChallis © 2015
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