Tell me, lover, how the flooded sky peals the soul's vengeance,
the churning of autumn and echoing footfalls on the stairwell
with dusk tasting like our kisses in their eager, sanguine
(bittersweet) youth.
Fearful of depths, I fled your embrace to fall swooning,
each glance a brush of laden finishing, a heart-heresy.
Yesterday I sealed the last box, wiping my brow and wearing
those sage, harried conversations
as only a crushed kite with torn webbing can muster
in the face of distance.
Now, when I smile at you, there are only waves ebbing
across sandbars and our twilights.
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Comments
e. e. cummings but with the depth and sad diction of Emily dickenson.
I really like the way metaphors are so forcefully smoothed in that when we think the poem through only the meanings of the words jump out.
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~One day, the great mosquito will come~
~Kudos for waffles~
~ I have C.C.D~
--
Death grows...
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it's all about the jazz, baby
--
[Philippians 1:21]
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"The goblins have forty-two different words for 'ow'" - Detonate
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'What happens is a continual surrender of himself as he is at the moment to something which is more valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.' - TS Eliot, 'Tradition and Individual Talent'
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"Today, I went to take off her bra, and when I finally unhooked it from behind her, it snapped back and hit me in the eye. FML"
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