plates shift now foreign

From the corner of eyes,
too poised
You look
Not even seeking, and still pressed together.
As if flowers in mother's firm books.

I fear finding one of rumor of your quiet Bloom
would make me collapse,
and anyway
where should my head fall after crafting those
digging thorn
levees on your lap?

Watch My Dawn rise carefully, upon warm hairs
of the crown's childish head,
as if knowing, then suddenly quite carelessly showing.. and showing
and showing.
and showing
How our light splendidly crept from the curtains,
quite clear off to bed,
and up to the wall.
How can it be told you did not feel it at all?

Our separate ice boxes may fit us well, for I am not afraid
to be alone, to be fed alone.
Learned to pave this path of my own silken tread.
Now you slump our shoulders
just to say it is better,
now we can make ourselves
happy (as nothing),
and you think it works.

See I thought there was no more of you that I could miss,

for now it seems all I possess remains stale memorythat aches of your caress.

Maybe now I slouch almost thankfully divided.

Should I set hearts a sail and say you're the one that has lost,

or try to piece it together to show what you forgot?

Today I will write a Poem and not an Elegy.

Love's Rumor (to Augustin)

So easy it appears to be the blind man you assume,
the hiding prophet.
(so craved does your heart appear to show)
I will try to teach you this fragrance we coin, the status we resume.
Melded, we unthread the fabric of The Way Things Were
with you and a handful of past lovers—
all of their wailing, piercing murmurs. With me and you
We
redefine past thoughts of love’s rumor:
this everchanging raw patch,

lined with melted smiles,
entwined is our skin in this silk framework-
..If only you would let yourself be enamored.

keepin' wants under your bed.

now in your absence I have grown
to feel longing, its hot swept under carpet suckling.
Nurture the adjusted emptiness
to find it is both of us that are lacking.
But what a consuming smile!
I could not put off loving you another day.

But as the tide reappears each day a bit higher or lower, and the salted sea breathes backwashed foam up to washed sandy beaches, until the curl of The Way Things Are pushes back into the sea, this accustomed pattern of attempting to create was of the same force- it mirrored the incessant breeze that always goes back into the ocean, the words reciprocate this back into the mouth, retracted from paper into this meticulous wonderment that is creative ability or lack thereof. Trying to write while catching the tide.

lu

bent goddess, howling at the moon
I wish my lungs
were inflated to greet your breath. It seems a rounder world,
a kinder womb.
Caress now scenting the world with tiny
sparks of breezy evenings glazed
from twirling afternoons.

Twisted to address my declawed character
to morph, drunk from you.
Defeated myself with emotion
(or perhaps I may just have bloomed). A muse,
inked neon sign of allure- pure
inspiration to forget the wretched latch within
these borders.
You said that beauty can be difficult to write about,
so write with its disorder.

"I don't learn from my own poems"

Learning to find quiet- beneath myself I
reach grasping to be saved
from your sense of accounting (a mere strut),
till I find goodness in some careful wine
then mistake it perhaps for the crimson of your cheek-
daylight peers with its kinding smirk.
(And to think I wanted to stay a week)

Still breathing-barely-breaking the yolk, it watches you:
review slender phrases titled with a label maker- "Emotions"--
a shield of your accustomed rationality.
I find you stuttering, sobbing, sighing
trying to keep sobering but still blatantly sheltering.
you told me a paraphrase of the memoir would do a life justice,
I watch you still squirm for some sense of attachment.

if you like my poems let them by E. E. Cummings

if you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

cata

We stab our spines, daggers penetrating the bus door
and anticipate its confined close and meek opening.
Burn holes into these intricate scuffs,
painted like a prophecy on the floor.

We are publicity speaking for ourselves, alone
(while thigh deep in looks of unsuited anger)
We
would rather stand alone than sit by a stranger.