lost
in a map of spirals,
my ambling fingers
never arrived,
they linger in the length
of an eyelash,
suspended
above
your sunset hair,
where I can
still
sense the night
ripe enough to fall
where I can not,
despite all of my starvation.
and as I stare
like a child
through a glass pain
of hope, I know
I will never grasp
the stalks of your pleasure,
that I will live,
sick
with
distance.
so
the roar
of cities painted
in their smoking hours
shall be my only lover,
and within it
I will learn to welcome
the cold blue eyes
of the lunatic
in his suit of filth –
his armor –
as he boldly marches
into the traffic
of normality;
here, too, lies
the street-wise dealer
under his black cap,
clenching white bags.
his smooth tongue
punching holes in the sidewalk
where the rich
will err.
he keeps me smiling,
shaking my head
to the musician’s rhythm,
who blurs his hands
into his blood,
filling me with loose change
from the shallow pockets
of pigeons and apostles.
all while the suits
slight and stride on,
punishing the color
of this brutal season’s contrast,
and render my love
for this second-choice life.
a child’s voice,
whether laughing,
sobbing, or cantillating
chaos with notes –
so much like happiness –
delivers through me
a solemn thought
akin to Parisian rain . . .
or the darkness I’ve granted
to the crows:
yes,
the word tomorrow
defines what never
is.
still,
the traps my ardors set
are cloaked in your skin’s mist.
still,
these streets are unforgiving
and beauty is no more
than aspiration
to reach the end
of time’s lone graveyard,
each bell a tomb
for all the beats
that die when waked
inside my pulse.
still,
this inkling
of all ideals,
shredded yet survived
amidst the tattered parkways,
down all the singing avenues,
in every sight of the despaired,
and all the cloven hands of pain
which only craved
(ever since the sun
wept in set)
to brush love’s hair,
and know, closer, closer,
closer
still,
the mirrored streams
of oak and rain, of lashes,
wounds, and tortured
art, to find what’s bound
in certain pause,
when spinning earths
are felt on lips
and quaking bones
are nebulas:
the wrinkles, flaws, birth-marks
of joy, sewn webs
entwined with waves
goodbye on shores of skin,
fallen pasts renewed
and streets absorbed
by peace, for-
gotten in that land
of sky where poet’s pens
bleed into death
and I can breathe
just one last time
because I’d fought
enough to chance
to lay beside
your dusky strands
and touch you
first, at last, at last . . .
and then, hold –
like a beautiful day
in memory –
still.