This blancmange of dusk—of melted coral lights
has tugged the softest from the heaviest of heights.
Its face the color of yearning—cast down as mine.
Barely grazed round the head I must be bound inside
the verge again—between what now may be moving
and what has immovably since
the frozen wavescape of circumference undefined.
I’ve been wanting to be touched by a light
such as this, but even urge when satisfied
really quells nothing much—just like
a tender eye lightly daubed in steady brine;
a song I play with passion that never will be mine;
the way I shuffle them, without one
to settle on; the silence that I usually find—
the kind that settles none.
Twilight shows me faint—the wait being time
we pine for clear desire—beyond this lacquered
veneer of sky—vaguely painting fire.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
This blancmange of dusk—of melted coral lights
has tugged the softest from the heaviest of heights.
Its face the color of yearning—cast down as mine.
Barely grazed round the head I must be bound inside
the verge again—between what now may be moving
and what has immovably since
the frozen wavescape of circumference undefined.
I’ve been wanting to be touched by a light
such as this, but even urge when satisfied
really quells nothing much—just like
a tender eye lightly daubed in steady brine;
a song I play with passion that never will be mine;
the way I shuffle them, without one
to settle on; the silence that I usually find—
the kind that settles none.
Twilight shows me faint—the wait being time
we pine for clear desire—beyond this lacquered
veneer of sky—vaguely painting fire.
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