|
***
I took up so much time
to bring solitude on my shoulders
which is a long haired tenderness
-don’t the stones hide the river anymore?-
and now to take courage and speak –as I do-:
I promised if I ever would have written verses
it would have been to you
and someone still awaiting just ahead of me
and nothing else to give yet
as I leave.
***
So I evade myself at night
from yesterday to today
in hotels where the pillow
leans on moth-holes
and that’s all that is real.
And we were turned away, my friend,
from where we would stay long before
for we were taking up much space
in all those rooms for rent.
And it has been three months as yet.
The dress of snow I’ve made
melts under fingertips
that try the strength of death.
By turns they come and by the hair
hold up my head but they won’t
further see a mask after the mask.
***
Or possibly fantastic - I may confess -
hung aloft among careful regrets
a bright old moth on a misty alder tree
- who shall remember that I depart?-
The smoky ends in coffee shops
the wake upon the flowers
the first time caught together
in furnished hotel rooms
I have come to believe
that much has come over the years
along the way near us
the truth of what you don’t believe
- this is my turn to speak -
is turned away from warmer fruits
with grace of bare still hands
you never heard me speak
that our love was meant to be
unknown to one another’s sake
that this would make the absence wake
up, lost in distance of some rooms
I was only listening before
trying to drag me to some joy with you
- whom else should I speak to? -
|
