May 11th, 2011


(no subject)


Hold hands a moment, for a second touch
her cheek, picking a dead leaf from her hair.
Buy sweet red grapes for lunch, offer to share,
watch her mouth slowly crush them. It's too much

to hope for more and it is quite enough
to have these things, to have but not possess
her love, luxuriate in the distress
of stealing moments. Fragile and yet tough

wisps of desire. Accumulate your joy
fragment by fragment. Never say a word.
She's yours while she can say she never heard
a hint of what your actions speak. She'll toy

with you a month. Ten years from now she cries
awake from dream of you, kissing her thighs.

(no subject)


Sleep. Dream in music. Breathe it like a sea
you've grown the gills for. Dance it like the fire-
you've salamander skin. It is desire
it's hunger's bite, the ache of memory,

It is requital, food, myrrh-smelling balm.
Call and response; it's numbers as they dance,
dance as equation. It is wakeful trance
and deadly hurt that brings consoling charm.

You cannot know awake, can only try
to reach those notes and hold them. There's a grief
in waking – the bright dawn's a cunning thief
takes music back. You feel for it. You cry

out for what's stolen. You do not belong
to waking life, yet are consoled by song.