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glen-brunsonPoems
I do not know where your hands rest when you speak. but your knees are rounded smoothing river rock and once I stared at them in a wine-hazed fire, and I called them beautiful but you seemed afraid so I stopped that. you have a perfect nose. I am skittish in your focus    , rolled and shaken,    hazy when you laugh and ask    for more, I cannot be sure    that you mean it. where do your eyes sit when you ask questions, where do your ears go to answer? we talked so long, I think. *you mad ,but you magic there no lie in your fire* as much as I can, I do mean it. even if we were only close once, with that glass tree hidden on bull street, (you sang into the bottles; it sounded hopeless and I loved it)                  even if we were only close when you                  kicked the candles across the room                  with all the glass clanging                  with us laughing our all out, throat roaring                  even if that was it,                  I would wake up again on your couch knowing how your face may look perfect in the softer morning-haze, with your foot cooling from the cover, I would drive home in the sun, barely awake; I would do this all again.
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Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
Again By the Sea
I do not know where your hands rest when you speak. but your knees are rounded smoothing river rock and once I stared at them in a wine-hazed fire, and I called them beautiful but you seemed afraid so I stopped that. you have a perfect nose. I am skittish in your focus    , rolled and shaken,    hazy when you laugh and ask    for more, I cannot be sure    that you mean it. where do your eyes sit when you ask questions, where do your ears go to answer? we talked so long, I think. *you mad ,but you magic there no lie in your fire* as much as I can, I do mean it. even if we were only close once, with that glass tree hidden on bull street, (you sang into the bottles; it sounded hopeless and I loved it)                  even if we were only close when you                  kicked the candles across the room                  with all the glass clanging                  with us laughing our all out, throat roaring                  even if that was it,                  I would wake up again on your couch knowing how your face may look perfect in the softer morning-haze, with your foot cooling from the cover, I would drive home in the sun, barely awake; I would do this all again.
glen-brunson
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glen-brunson
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
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