Interval
In the rooms, which stand in summer evenings cooling,
In the interlude between lamplight and firefly dusk, in which we walked
In between the torch-eye of the fox and the shyness of the doe,
In them I see time congealed like a drop of sweat on your cheek,
In perfect silence, waiting, for something to be said,
In between, perhaps, talk and its coda.
Note: Not a poem, but something written for an assignment, and also as an exercise to mimic live music.
My Poems
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Harmonium
Your arm around my neck,
apart from being armor
against winter’s dagger,
Was the tunnel through which Dowland’s harmonies arrived, departing from the valley at the center of your throat, bearing spring.
And my unpracticed mouth, unable to say the words, took the edge of your palm between its lips then, as though through that limited
motion a room buried in the dark self was thrown open to the sun once again.
My Poems
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