treading masterfully this autumn-long road where
at the end of first light so begins your fragile darkness.
i know not where you wait for me as birds in all geographies
land without further recall; as though by saying that the Summer
has dealt its cards and the serrated grass folds when it thinks
the rain to be everywhere descending, falling as lithely as a lover
whose cockeyed miracle first has meted out a singular trapping fate
of hands that interlock to no retreat.
i know not the silence of the Earth when all is caliginously
intact without knowing. but then should you return, your eyes
will light all the lamps awaiting your shuddering step and fruition
us both the ineffable rendering me forever the life of roses.
( i do not know which gravitates me back to where we
first saw each other; only something in me does not think
but is constantly supremed by feelingfulness when it is not
the wind but your breath not in the garden of joys but in the exuberance
of all that is made immense in me by your eyes,
when it is not the taut clamp of the sea at bay
but the island of your hands clutching the penumbra of my heart,
shattering the shadow and letting loose a sprightly dove
here and a hummingbird there)
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:57 AM UTC
treading masterfully this autumn-long road where
at the end of first light so begins your fragile darkness.
i know not where you wait for me as birds in all geographies
land without further recall; as though by saying that the Summer
has dealt its cards and the serrated grass folds when it thinks
the rain to be everywhere descending, falling as lithely as a lover
whose cockeyed miracle first has meted out a singular trapping fate
of hands that interlock to no retreat.
i know not the silence of the Earth when all is caliginously
intact without knowing. but then should you return, your eyes
will light all the lamps awaiting your shuddering step and fruition
us both the ineffable rendering me forever the life of roses.
( i do not know which gravitates me back to where we
first saw each other; only something in me does not think
but is constantly supremed by feelingfulness when it is not
the wind but your breath not in the garden of joys but in the exuberance
of all that is made immense in me by your eyes,
when it is not the taut clamp of the sea at bay
but the island of your hands clutching the penumbra of my heart,
shattering the shadow and letting loose a sprightly dove
here and a hummingbird there)
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