| in the darkened day |
| An anthology of our love. Drawn crinkled Curtains. Capacious day. Another in and out cloud-filled sky. I'm sick and tired of writing about my rapturous crap. Drowning In my own self-pity.(my real)curiosity is Of your soft inner thighs(and the smell) Of fresh cut grass. Now As the wind kicks in. Your sunflowers swaying in a huddled group. Your Poetry is beautiful. It touches my senses (fills my eyes) There are dead crows everywhere. Lobster restrictions. In the crispness of dusk, people flee the streets, as the mosquitoes rise from the marshes, weathervanes twist sharply, hammering keyboards in the darkened day, wondering if your lips Are achievable. The irrelevance of my brightly-lit-ego-marquees In the hushed fog of early morning bike rides, head bowed in prayer, wondering if you are there, who died in a porch laden sleep, though I still see you walking with all the ghosts, of all the aunts, in long summer dresses, a pinched smile a long traveled mile To the Fair in August, and the smell of manure scrap yard ferris wheel with half the lights out, Some blinking. Creaking rust and happy children Screaming innocence of blacked-eyed suzie bemoans its fate to a vase as New Construction covers the northern lights, parsley crab pie, an internet recipe, a mouthful of fire, spices, cooling on the windowsill, microwave madness, purity of steaming rice Spread out before me. Impressed. You made me smile. You made me cry. Like a baby. One day we'll make love to this Violin One Day I'm going to revise this poem neondusk446pmsaturdayaugust122000 |