I thought I'd lost you. But you said I'm imbued

in the fabric of things, the way that wax lost from batik shapes the pattern where the dye won't take I make the space around you,

as so allow you shape. And always you'll feel the traces of that wax soaked far into the weave: the air around your gestures,

the silence after you speak. That's me, that slight wind between your hand and what you're reaching for, chair and paper, book or cup:

that close, where I am: between where breath ends, air starts

After having loved we lie close together and at the same time with distance between us like two sailing ships that enjoy so intensely their own lines in the dark water they divide that their hulls are almost splitting from sheer delight while racing, out in the blue under sails which the night wind fills with flowerscented air and moonlight

• without one of them ever trying to outsail the other and without the distance between them lessening or growing at all.

But there are other nights, where we drift like two brightly illuminated luxury liners lying side by side with the engines shut off, under a strange constellation and without a single passenger on board: On each deck a violin orchestra is playing in honor of the luminous waves. And the sea is full of old tired ships which we have sunk in our attempt to reach each other.

[A]

Parallels

Euclid’s Axiom:
	Parallel lines don’t 
             intersect 
      except at infinity.

False False again!
	Soft kisses under  fall
	          foliage
	 remembered today tell 
	
Me, how we met impossibly once.
     Two parallel lines again
                        stretching
	into the blue infinities.
[B]

Unlangauged

I will become unlangauged
	     Like the birds
The insistent fluttering of 
	     those wings
The  high pitch of  raucous
	    Bird love song
In sparse snow armored trees 
	  (You walk under)
And fill up the wintry silences
		Of my grief.
[C]

Black

Black: the color of soot
	ascendant of lights
		extinguished.
 
Black: the night I fight 
	   with puny fires
		raging tears.
 
Black: the color you liked to
	  wear; the antimony in
	       your unloving eyes 

Black: the blankness of this memory
	         I hold to write about
				Black
-----------------------------------------------
2001:12:20 02:30 Atlanta

Wrote these poems, on an Ethanol high.


My Poems