Thursday, October 13, 2011

Light-ness

what is light? all
that we see or do, that is spread
on fingers splayed; a certain weight-
less flow, separate from shade,

where two rays fall freely; there is sweetness
in the way you look at me
now, as though a switch
has flipped up, on, and a room illumined.

it can be in pieces, divided
to the touch; your face
when mouthing the separate vowels of a name;
or when engrossed, playing
as children do,

there is a diffused glow, light made ambient
by you; a lack of feet, a hint of clouds
passing overhead in a passing shade, like a laugh-
ing mouth, sliding lips, flushed, you are light
as a touch, a word, a kiss.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

The heart is no titan

I am nothing known nor meant, no titan,
no shepherd immune to the heart's deceit,
where a warlord's keep still towers, and my
feet tread back and forth at the gates, asleep

with no means of retreat. My defense has
flown apart, exposed as mere bone-molded
arrows and spears, not rock, not steel; no fire
to forge such a blade as your heart has pressed

to me. And what for the whisper, the hope
of what this land could be? There was a wind
come from far overseas, and I sailed out
with a quest, a prayer for something fierce

and wondrous, but your walls are yet unbreeched,
and your fortress no sweet shelter for me.

I cannot love. This heart is a forest


and I don't need flowers


or insensitivity, like a cold rock thrown in an ice blue sleep. I don't need words
of praise or peace


or hands to build a house amidst my leaves; i am a blowing thing
of rampant insecurities and dashing,
thriving beasts; I don't need lips
to touch sweetly, nor a trail blazed, nor fellow tree to spend dark evenings


amidst the howling, hushing brush; I ache already
in the moist morning
where your feet have trampled
such delicacies.





________________





Maybe I am dreaming of what love is supposed to be.

You cannot fill me, as no one can

for a creature's heart is empty. And I

am not that vase or glass, not fine

enough to fill myself with sand;

What is as hollow

as your cupped hands?

Love is small, and five fingers can hold nothing.

Communicate

a surge of speech, verging on old news, i am seldom heard
by you; i can't interpret myself

like a kite, a solitary flier
wrapped up in a lamppost--
i'm not made to flutter.

it's like speaking to a beech tree, a deaf love
with verbal inconsistencies and sign-language adultery;
if my words were leaves, they would weep
down around you in a flurry
and i would never know if they struck
water, or just crumpled to the ground--

and asking words from you is like asking
salt from the sea, you can only give
me a silent tide but no sieve; no method
of drawing salt from sand from an ocean deep;
your rocks are words
and i want your rocks, boy, your rocking
to and fro
but your waves refuse to speak.


____________

and you talk like you want to tie the knot
but there are too many knots tied
and i am not
a knife, love doesn't cut it;

and what is love without words
of love -- just trembling
sighs and mouth eating lips with lies.