Above (Deconstructed)

It is your neck I see from here
that is viscous with sunlight,
shrugging off clouds
and rising into them,
in disbelief at their solidness,
and wet comforting fluff
that is sky all around you
(because technically it is all
sky we breathe and sleep and fall
around). We except ourselves
from sky; it is as much between
the sun and I as I and you,
a sky apart midst what I suppose
are clouds, stepping over what
might be rainbows on ground
(that is still ground). That much
is the same, still, and it connects
us as well, most of the time,
but not like the sky or space
called aether by those
who insist nothingness
is a silly idea (with whom I
am sympathetic). So I swim
through your sky and kiss you.

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Moment

There is love
and two displaced
knocks beget uncertain stillness
beached upon darkness,
cognizant of abstract sound
clusters there, orphaned
aspects of motion
perhaps calling for me.
I believe it is real.
Is it mine? Eh,
no cries at all,
not anymore.

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Windowside

Specks of wonder
in sunlight gathered, thrown
as best one can-
they go
Out, I think, to you.
Breaths they hurry on
like thoughts they manifest
and are weighted and float
softly there, longing and being
caught, clustered,
raked in as gold, bundled
and serene in strange
hands that I think are yours,
is it you?
I think it is.
Or, it pleases me to think so. Yes.

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Sleeptalk

That dreaming look
Contortions such as the face
makes, if one swallows
their own top lip.
That look
so lucky ducky
in love.
_____Maybe
it is an attempt to stifle unlove (dislove)
prone to topple out.
But he finds himself,
conveniently, without much
to say. He is dreaming.
And so he has that look
lucky ducky
in love.

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A Gift, With Love

My next letter to you
Will have a book in it.
It is my book.
I will seal the envelope with glued hands
Soiled cleanly through
assembling your book.
This poem
will be in this (your) book.
And if you smile I will see it.
Such is the joy of books.

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Her Forgotten Collected Works

-I hurry with
Translating and cementing in memory
Your flailed tears
In a well-bound edition.
They are throwaway and impetuous
Love poems beholden
to a specific absence that
I chronicled, here, for you
_________________now
to peruse. And she then from him
Took her cast off,
noble words,
Words of purity enough
To justify pilgrimage
to distant objects,
bowed in unvindicated trust
of being noted,
arrogating an immortal shred
of love.

When she reads them
again there is a harvest feast
for the crusaders, their piety proven
and manifest immaculately
in choice lines, and the lives
of the just are threaded once more
to cover heads anew
in the mourning party.

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Allegro ma non troppo

Lines of recollected love poems
Flit brightly as confettied emotion
With chimes of scattered sentiment.

Now goodbyes a quaint mistruth
Lapped in thoughts of you,
Scattered poetry in your form,
"You, the sun." A presumed dawn
____________of empty arms,
Lips inked by touch
Feeling____________out
Speaking softly.

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Room

Some water came down
Old wallpaper hissing
With gluey leaks, yellow
covered skin and hairs rushing
in the same direction as bathing
rubs, held steady past shivers
bearing me up. Twinged in my wet neck
Stubborn tinny vertebrae.
Six walls without Up in
failed recognition.

Brushes of strangers
held still the ruminant.
The cards and lips beside me sigh,
Smile, easy. Pillowed face 'neath
Meek private sleep
Draped on us
Holding ourselves between
Salt-block bedposts.

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Circulation

The air is warm still
and filling humid lungs
She is tired, a
sodden hand masks her.
She has not moved.
Her feet are warm.
The air moves over her
in time with tranquil abstract.

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