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To sweeten you with these two hands,
is to seek you, to trace the distance
against ardor in the course of Autumn birch.
I gather the heavy scent, fondle it in cotton
above the changing leaves,
above the urgent of voices,
above the highest
inclination
of clouded blue.
My footfall is infinite;
it moves to a cadence
not my own, awaiting
homecoming like a second skin,
where one pauses on the
boundaries of an atlas in expectation of
breath to breath or perhaps a candle
in the wake of night to lead the way.
To find is to resolve, to gaze beyond
the carroty of cones that direct through
intersections,
farther than the the dusts of Arizona,
the streams
that emptied long after your exodus.
And I know if I unearth you, I open brilliance,
a man softened, aged gracefully through-
out the years, where my flesh becomes your
flesh as a garden is to soil.
There I will inhale
once only once, senses enduring the rush
that permeates within your beating chest.
I will linger for a moment, seconds before
I expire into the depths of your throat,
lightly
smoothing the words you long to say.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
All Paths Lead to You
On nights such as this
Both intimate and collective are our hands
during the season
they hearten organs rapid in anticipation;
an allure of ignited fireflies multiply, where
the cheek grows an ideal flush in moments
where one nears ov er joy.
The lovers tongue, expert and authentic,
it flusters the length of the vine
illumine, feather-soft, fragrant,
overturning everything. I just want to break
you down into the narcissus bloom, a tight
leaf unfurled like a boy in the backseat of
his mothers sedan.
The sounds would impel across fields
in an array of lavender and thick silver
an orchid spun into the air, a window
moist with the breath
of night. Observing from the flowers,
we cup our palms in acquiescence,
spit gratitude from the red of
the sweetened throat.
Letter by Letter
I knew one day I would send you a letter
like this―
words strung like clouds against the blue,
a mere note that you would stroke one
thousand times over to the scent of
lavender and lucidity.
Consider the madness of
this place: lights that flicker in delight,
turning nights on silent film―
a landscape of
hunger and blush.
If only you knew how you breathe inside of
me like rainfall, Spring vigor, or wet hands
that
ex tend
past the edge of this silent city.
O, you! Yes, you,
you are poetry in the book of
Sullivan. One I do not dare to lie down.
I'd tell you everything
In dream, I have tasted a saint; the moisture
still drying deep in the thorax the fluid,
fruit spun from a tree.
Within his defenses, a pine-bedded forest,
an un-divided Texan sky that hums between
two seasons, unfastened & affectionate,
where sheep count on nights to hot to sleep,
where we two converse about something
or nothing at all,
their fleece, a blanket of mourning that shivers
& soaks our imaginings like the thin fingers of
watchful addicts along the vine.
His hand, a closeness that I have come to know
beneath the ornamental eves of a secret chalet
in september,
where we burn before the gates, off the cuff,
a tongue of sunken idiom illicit on the lip.
A Glimpse of Things to Come
I re-enter into a past thought through
letters, and linger within―dialogue,
the lateral sequence of
pearl.
I cannot say what moves me or sets
me once more to conversations
in midday, but the senses
becomes brilliant like blue eyes
late to bloom, clarity
―and a balcony
that
overlooks a woman she sweeps
the ice like a mother would her floor.
On the soft on my nape, words,
rainfall, and the sporadic sun
all positioned to calm the skin,
smooth out the cold.
And I see clusters of green birch and geese
on the peak of rock-face
they blend into
the scene almost perfectly―chest,
touch, and your voice, would adorn
it even more with a luster so vast,
I might shatter.
A bit outr, but often, I hear you
in the far-flung
boughs of those wintered trees,
where we embrace letters
to the
last line,
never to disregard what it is we long for.
Three or Four Shades of Blue
It is 6am and I douse my hands in the iridescent afterpuddle
of your tender, gaping words. Septembers lingering chill, a fade to silence mordent:
measure to measure, each second from unlit window to white fence,
un dyingly sweep the sunlight to the horizon,
warming the succession of rubato affettuoso heartbeats, one swell un clenching
to the next. You are asleep now.
You dream in circles, where the curved stems of forget-me-nots meet
the waterway and we are infant boats bobbing downstream,
buoyant along copper coasts. I want to wake you,
the hush of our breaths shifting between lips.
I imagine us walking the hours, seconds before a paper sun
shatters early morning. We take the path beside
choke-cherry and vine. I imagine an ambush or surrender
there, your tongue sifting shards
seeding all that you have so much to say.
I turn toward you, push mine to yours as if to ease
the ache--as if to remove the gauze and the casts
and finally find myself sprinting. You welcome it. I imagine another kiss
as if my chest could circulate all of the lost clouds
i nto one untangled, floating world,
as if I could feel yours charted with mine
leaving my body lifeless, awaiting next birth.
Oh how I burn. Thighs tightly together
its too much, its too much.
Dont be surprised
It was bound to happen.
For days the ache lie at the door;
an intractable silhouette that refused
to slip away.
I step outside, stand beside the autumn
leaves. I dream a dream of kissing you
amid the moist air. Is it only a dream?
If not, then what?
Because it is here in the traces of
footfall that I imagine you.
Your hands gather mine, place them
to chest, where everything burns,
where each second is counted
where the tongue thickens along the path.
In this September of my life, the voice
knows not of language a circle of
sound
like an echo, subtle in the mouth.
With cool hands, I button my coat
and I walk the distance of your smile.
I consider the words of
Neruda and by the same shore,
I would end my journey, place roots
within his, lie quiet, and await for you
to discover me.
If your heels drag in season, and you
cannot reach me if your heels drag
in season, and you could never reach
me, the sea breeze would shatter my
form, the dream would fade away.
Coco Chanel
During hours of madness
Your words brush flesh-like behind my nape,
where I am pressed by a bitter wind
on my way to make amends.
I gather for hours these moments, where
I live inside of you, where I curl in the kindness
and cool of your extended hands.
I long to inspire them, to run my own against
them guide each [breath] across chest
like a lucid dream or fervor.
And I cannot sense whose heat is whose
when I read your lines.
But I am compelled to keep you at hand,
caught in my hair like a prayer, a slip of
the thigh as I move broad, descend deeper,
swallowing you.
But it is only a dream, only a dream.
And with reverie slipped soft beneath my skirt,
I step into the basilica, and everything
becomes still as if the members felt my thoughts,
sensed the confession still warm on my tongue.
Becoming the Breeze That Chases the Boy
Blush is the skin after his voice
it weighs as much as the tongue flustered.
Where clarity does not come without ache,
and like a egrets cautious step in peril,
the body slows to naught.
The senses concede each muscle, fluid,
an oceans barrage. The vascular parapet,
the dark valves of altars, a reminder that one
must prepare on the wire for collapse.
One must thicken arteries to cease the flow,
so the language that pushes through his throat
does not slip into the open spaces, pierce
the defenses with a single flutter
just as the heart begins to calm, when Autumn
has left a deeper auburn on the leaves,
just when you have glanced away for a moment.
As If By Sea
O love, speak to me.
Should we end as quickly as we
began?
I slip past your lips tonight, find myself
inside flesh, where
each second, I witness
you for the first time.
And I know now that it will not be you
who catches my fall: there is nothing
con necting us anymore, but space.
For a moment, I rest in the deep of
your throat― beautiful and low,
I pull
each breath with a stern finger,
voice impelling from your chest
nothing pushing nothing [nothing].
And there is no frame to this leg room,
no fervor free of reluctance I wish
you were really here.
A plea is not enough you are built like
stone, these two hands cannot get past
the water that rises―splitting words
to a scat ter soon it will be
against the nape, its salt thickening my
own tongue
to a silence.
Not about anything in general. :)
For He Who Enters
O gentle one,
breathe in - I am warm on the wire.
My body rushes to the stroke, rigor
fills my palm as a lily might pervade
the garden.
I require more -
I need to feel
the madness in you,
tender lip, delicate thigh, and, and
the moments as they ex
-plore eagerness -
for you I am awake.
And O my the breeze lifts my dress;
its mellow depths, push cotton to cheek.
And in a state of array, I curve to fit
the form.
You follow how stirring,
like a schoolboy, the gestures, the way
I move in you presence,
my hair in your hands it is
too much.
And there is something outside your door
it is art, Italy, Neruda!
No. It is only the sound
of the rain or a dream perhaps, but as your
mouth expands slow and silent
I peel from your skin in
blue. There is no path
more sustained than
the one
that leads to you.
Rapt in salutations we perform from one
window to the other, you grow fevered,
misplaced, lonely,
in love.
O beloved, these words, like stones pressed
against your cheek, breathe in
for I am [warm] on the wire.
There are too many hours before dusk,
where one can become mislaid along
the hidden curves of the throat:
a burst
of laughter,
of white space,
of delicate, corporeal vocals;
a counting of the harvest in cultural
rearing. The voice is a lover:
a span of the sensual sun, a nervousness
that lies low in the season, waiting or begging
for release. And the flutter of chest becomes
wet, a way to taste the tongue, or perhaps
a lead that one must pursue solely.
I say this before the rain in hopes of
encore or breadth -
I dont know why I like it. I just do.
O, if I were an atlas
a diagram that reveals warm breath on flesh,
I would gather the hum that cascades nicely
from the sweetened lip, sweep it to elite waters,
and drown in what could never be mine.
Like a hand on an unstrung harp
O, I envy your voice when it maddens,
the way it moves in & out of love.
I feel the sound of soft bone splinter
in an instant―fragments, ardor, the slight
of heat beneath skin it is radiant.
The rush an explosion of sorts like lilies
a thousand shades of white as September
rises to rain beyond sense of place,
beyond our eyes.
I sense the tightness in my throat as you
place your words onto the quiet of mine.
I quiver before my own heart: a girl drawn
restless in half moon, favored in your light.
I see rows of brilliant bloom, a garden,
a gate succulent, inviting. And as I give
in to downpour, my walls collapse, hands
slipping into the warmth of yours.
Falling From Western Skies
In the mirror, I see his face
It has been so long since I have
heard the soft of his voice
along the wire―
its sweet laughter
forming my lips
to a curve.
It has been hours since I have sensed
the fruit on his breath through
dialogue and delight
a stirring like no other.
And I will wait
a small existence against the horizon, wait as my
fingers turn to numb, until the slightest movement
brushes my flesh against his.
I sit on the white sands of a late September morn,
watch the tide feed back into the sea.
Far off, the precipice stretches to sky:
it stands from one end to the other of
my undying admiration.
I gather my pen, begin a letter:
Dearest one,
Drown by tangled sentiment, reflective
in thought―my hands tremble
as I write.
This place, a landscape of vigor - it demands
the passion caught carelessly in my hair,
but I do not
give in.
Everything that forms my breath,
remains contained in your hands, held
softly as first snow. It presses me
to call out your name,
but you
are not here.
And the tide is rising―
fresh water that fingers my flesh as you might.
Its want, deep-seated, eyes empty, like the way
I am on days without your warmth.
You pulsate inside me, leave me misplaced
in a season gone astray.
I have searched for your face
in a crowded room, felt excitement from infinite
mountain sides, where all the every things
are counted like blue cars or drops of rain.
Here, as the last words fall away,
I surrender myself.
Here, where the thread that ties one
voice to another will carry us quietly, to a place
where we can unfold these
cold and bare
hands.
