Whose dreary face now becomes warmth – an ash turning
into a single drop of water
I love and I have – and I know that when she looks
she does not. Nothing moves the bird of her dawn but
her. Proletariats sing of steel in the night and I deaden
within their homes. Whose dreary face now becomes
the steady light on the porch – a thigh, or a river, turning
into a single gasp of song.
I love and I have – and I know that when she sings
she does not. Her silence moves the moon deep within
its womb and annuls. Each moment in her shoes, she is absent,
and I taste the pale death of her precise waist,
her sharp tongue having me curved when enough was said
when empty was sure. I know whose face I am talking to,
but knows not what day has escaped me. The possible:
to bring her so small in my hand, and invent her this fate,
to be unclenching like water and virile like stone. I know
the singular act of her likeness is born out of my lack:
there is a spring-clean image traipsing the water. I must chase
where it streams, and its origins not my own.
The city borders us two as we are demanded by the daily:
the smell of a home shoals me a satiny sob. Still the marvelous
sky, a knife, if not referring to me, the cut lily that is the Sun.
Whose dreary face now becomes a store,
commerce, becomes the silver of hills, becomes the gray assault
of an old cathedral, becomes the surety of a transaction
and then becomes wind chiming through cities. Becomes inquiry
between I love and I have – becomes dearth and is proud.
Nothing will stop the train arriving: when thirsty for a glimpse
like mine a fountain or a singular wave from an opened window,
she passes – and does not look for me.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
Whose dreary face now becomes warmth – an ash turning
into a single drop of water
I love and I have – and I know that when she looks
she does not. Nothing moves the bird of her dawn but
her. Proletariats sing of steel in the night and I deaden
within their homes. Whose dreary face now becomes
the steady light on the porch – a thigh, or a river, turning
into a single gasp of song.
I love and I have – and I know that when she sings
she does not. Her silence moves the moon deep within
its womb and annuls. Each moment in her shoes, she is absent,
and I taste the pale death of her precise waist,
her sharp tongue having me curved when enough was said
when empty was sure. I know whose face I am talking to,
but knows not what day has escaped me. The possible:
to bring her so small in my hand, and invent her this fate,
to be unclenching like water and virile like stone. I know
the singular act of her likeness is born out of my lack:
there is a spring-clean image traipsing the water. I must chase
where it streams, and its origins not my own.
The city borders us two as we are demanded by the daily:
the smell of a home shoals me a satiny sob. Still the marvelous
sky, a knife, if not referring to me, the cut lily that is the Sun.
Whose dreary face now becomes a store,
commerce, becomes the silver of hills, becomes the gray assault
of an old cathedral, becomes the surety of a transaction
and then becomes wind chiming through cities. Becomes inquiry
between I love and I have – becomes dearth and is proud.
Nothing will stop the train arriving: when thirsty for a glimpse
like mine a fountain or a singular wave from an opened window,
she passes – and does not look for me.
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