Words, the blood of poets. Slick, wet, hot, pouring over the page in a curtain of sultry satin red.
it is no terrible act
when you fit so well
in the cradle
of my fist
it is no terrible word
the one that starts
with me
and ends with you
(on your knees)
it is no terrible promise
rope, a bed, and you
bared
wet
mine.
it is no terrible price
we pay
to have it
but the hunger I harbor
for you
is terrible
and great
and smolders
like the acts, the words, the promises, and the price.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and neither did I take.
pricked by bramble and bush,
I rambled through
counting nicks with bloody glee.
Stepping over rot and splendor,
hidden temples of bugs,
no clearing found, no stream followed
just branches snapping like weak limbs
and I, crawling, walking reverent on dying leaves
a hospice for trees.
if this is decay
it is sweet.
the creak
under my feet
when you kneel
the ellipse
of your hips
a gathering
(tightening)
of your hair
between my fingers
you are the kind of affliction
slow to heal
and
uncommonly
beautiful
a sunset
all reds and orange
perpetually disappearing
(and almost always worth getting up to see
at 4 in the morning
when the rest of the world
is smartly sleeping)
bewitched
by your smile, of course
found first
in your eyes
‘you’re hiding a devil’
said I,
‘somewhere between your smile and your words’
no words now, nor smile
just a grin.
‘Come find it’, it said.
the problem with winter
isn’t a problem at all
cold invites behavior unbecoming
in summer days
if you think you are as fragile as glass
remember this:
I’m not afraid of your sharp edges.
in fact –
each time you break, I will place your pieces in my pocket
and when all that is left
is sand
I will gather you in my hand and gently send you across the world
until you are a desert, and I a cool wind
and we can sleep beneath the stars
no, she said.
peace is not stasis
or silence
it is not an absence of experience
it is an agreement the heart makes
to have, without greed.
to love, without bounds
to be, without fear
I find I go through life
with either
great patience
or great desperation
I sometimes wait.
content to watch the shadows
stretch and retreat
beneath my window
and sometimes
I am overwhelmed by a great need
to move.
or experience a hunger
like Cronus had for his children.
I do not see the sense of walking
when I can run towards the sun
or stand still
and let the world
come to me.
There is a pattern to your breath, a morse code in your pulse.
Hands on rounded hips, lips part, a slyph shared in a kiss.
I pass her to you, a safe harbor for our burgeoning language; we learn, creation through motion – a thigh turned, an arm raised.
There is a genesis, a light.
This is how I tell you that I left the groceries on the counter but hid the chocolates.
This is how I tell you that I watched you water the roses and thought, ‘What color do roses blush?’
This is how I tell you that I did not feed the cat and she will likely follow you like an overly attached child, bumping your leg. She will not perish – she is quite fat – but she will act as if death is no far thing.
This is how I tell you what I know best. That the language of our bodies is the language of our lives. And that words – beautiful, amazing words – are poor substitutes for a hungry cat or a blushing flower.