Gossamer draperies swell
with heat, eastern winds
push daylight
over tangled bodies.

Fingers travel up
and down your naked torso,
my hand caught suddenly
in yours as you stir,
a sleepy god awakened
by the warmth of morning.

Your body, a sundial,
keeps perfect time with mine;
two lovers cached in silken strands,
our sacred place now fully lit
with the hunger of summer.

The solstice lingers past its prime,
drifting over equator
and into southern skies
as autumn patiently waits
outside the bedroom door.

هر دو بی فرزند هستیم (متفاوت)/we are both childless, differently
——————————————————————————


let us not ask each other or god

the why, just how life worked out

and maybe by a choice unconfessed

~

yet we both lie.

~

you possess thousands of offspring,

tend to their every need, breast feed

them water, special nutrients, stroking

their leaves, worry about their viruses,

you, dying just, a little, when, one rooted

looks up and says, “I am dying mother,

thank you for your love.”


~

my ***** produced two men,

each now, differentially,

lost, lost to me, and daily

privately, in word and wet,

weep my losses, for what

is a man who had children,

but goes down into his grave

gray haired, with none in

attendance to refill the soil

that his grave grayed body

requires to

hide his wasted,

childless

life.

Love: “and I know not if I sink or swim”

Love:

here’s how I see it;
everybody should have the
ability to walk around with
two sign optionality:

1. No vacancy
2. Open: (all rooms have A/C & cable)

never be disappointed; you know what you’re getting up front

and for an extra fee

3. credit cards Not Accepted

what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference?


                                                ­  ~~<>~~
he reads certain words,^ then

the poet uncovered, stumbles upon, a rhythmic bearing, provoked,
his own bearing now  lost in contemplation, exits the cottage, wandering on the always wet grass, observed by animal menagerie,
espy him watchfully, a human directionless wanderer wondering, asking himself the meaning of it all, knowing answers reserved not him

we celebrate subtlety, process the minutiae of extracting an exactitude of  the precious précis of each momentary why, only when he honest confesses his ineptitude, can he truly begin to pluck words from the airy atmosphere to assemble them in format that mines the great difference in everything, the differential veins

the creatures, unshy, wish to contribute, suggesting editions, subtractions, this turn, this twist, this nuance, always clarifying, valuing utility beauteous, making the meaning perfectly clear in ways that make you gasp at words, their powerful, to define, then refine, then just plain be, be fine, finding, exploiting, drawing freehand the lines of distinction exacting
this great differences
                                                  ~­~<>~~
^
“and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great differences?”

Sundial casts shadows
Mirror reflects forgiveness
Joy comes at sunrise

©

Vague eclipses delicately dance
                                    with luminosity,
as time verses though out the day.

Waltzing  to the intricate motions
                                          of both,
time, repetitive silhouettes
                              forever repeating.

to the one who knows or examines his existence
explain the relativity of time and distance
from the instance of creation;
the expansion of self
to the bold bearing of a life lived well.
now picture the presence of a proclaimed faith
through the face of a Galilean reference frame
but refrain from the mention of preconceived notions
which pertain to gnomon-wise motion.

© Matthew Harlovic

Time is measured
by the length of blade
from the strength of the stone
to the parting day.
Time is treasured
by the angst of a sage
from the shade of the sun
to its passing age.

© Matthew Harlovic

As the only sun
dial in my family,
spacetime encompasses
the face of a fallacy.

© Matthew Harlovic

Up and down,
That’s how life flows;
Just used to its scowl,
I go what it shows.

A myriad of colors
Surround these sheer pages;
From fail to honors,
Complete throughout ages.

But time consumes to extreme,
Onto own life to pay;
Come flee as if in a dream,
So to say, seize the day.

Run like there’s no tomorrow,
For time is just narrow;
There is not a chance to waste,
So fly away, make haste.