“I’m always knives-out,
a chain of razors folded
behind each gesture.
You who loves me: are you
paper? Or plywood? Or stone?”
–Christopher Morgan

I never write about blossoming but
i’m seeing inflorescence in
dejection;
my unpolished toes at the edge of the kitchen,
an unwashed bowl of almond butter
next to my tea.
empty half of a house,
my patient sponsor and the
tail end of my
frantic texts    public mania;
an affinity for
inscripting every feeling
somewhere permanent and
obvious and
flagrantly.
I could have been
sitting still,
saving face,
explaining through private sessions,
watercolor, grace or
long sleep.
she mentions  doing the
dishes         she mentions
breathing       she mentions
just let it be.

I see a bud in the daffodils you left me,
a water filled horizon that distorts my perception
about what “leverage” really means,
and the big picture;
obscured by my choice of lighting,
all fluorescent,
           it’s cheaper
blinding              my censorious self-portraits,
overdone with explanation and
cyclic editing,
ornate,
constant litter in the place,
and now I have some dead petals
to sweep.

it used to be us:
two dirty bowls
but saw clearly and
spoke the same.
we were soaked in
soft lighting and I held
your gaze,
your torso,
your incogitant rage
that I managed between fits of
self soothing and pleading,
placating you.
mouthful of bitten tongue,
some little good timing,
ready for
         hi there
some little soft haunting.
with you always:

a toothy smile,
walk for miles,
fingers crossed for some
little soft revenge.
yes,
I think about you
every now
and again.

2.

Advertisements

One thought on “

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s