Always on mornings like these I wonder

Always on mornings like these I wonder
if the early light of winter days
and the reverberating noises of this city
conspire to shake me from precious slumber.

I study my reflection after
warm morning absolutions

see a wide, dark scar
etched into my skin – it was

so long ago now it must have been
so painful must have burned, bled
must have throbbed for days...

And yet today, had you asked,
I would hardly have remembered how
it even got there.

Song of Desire: Heaven and Earth

Origin cast aside long

long ago

he stands

naked as truth, eyes aglow

engorged clouds, scent

of rain, between them space

thronged with cacophonous music

hands meant to touch

feel, tongue
meant to taste

mark paths and points
of intense interest

mapping out the geography

on skin; there,

there...

T h e r e.

Between the heaves of storm,

the earth prone and wet with desire, whispers

"More Again Here"

He inhaled

He inhaled the scent, still fresh on his pillow

Studied his nude body's silhouette shadow on a pale wall

Few would ever know the ease of his labors—the exhaustion of his heart.

He inhaled again, imagining he'd also vanish, as he blew the candle out

Getting up was easy enough

Getting up was easy enough
until I realized I had to move on.

I'd go,
stopping only to mark the miles
with words scribbled with a naked fingertip on
dusty windowpanes, wondering
where everyone else went when they moved on.

Then without realizing it, late
as usual and completely unawares,
I arrived.

Dubious eyes are at us here

Dubious eyes are at us here
afraid of the dark, or the end

of the party that wandered away
to the next place; searching

like all the others.

Anything is better than nothing,
they nod in agreement,
pretending to move to the music.

It's easier to walk away alone, but
I take your hand, and you hold on

as I lead you to where you'll sleep tonight.

The city is overtaken by a soothing notion. It falls,

The city is overtaken by a soothing notion. It falls, 

like you, 

into dreams through which he wanders

among austere columns supporting highways 

high above him; concrete & steel temples

in which he alone worships

at this hour.

In the silence he believes

he hears the gentle tones of your voice. Then again

as he watches a car's red lights vanish into the distance

a moment before he turns the key.

His bag slips into an indifferent bundle

in the dark and with his hand poised over the electric switch

everything becomes clear. 

I can't lie anymore

In the dark the ticking of a clock on the wall

is amplified by each

successive

second

Phone Call

You heard the familiar ring
that seemed to announce his call,

closed your eyes when you heard his voice
speaking words from
love poems that were never written

A cadence with pauses
as natural as the the silent moments
between the rhythm of a beating heart,

Verses of the freest kind

In which everything
meant I love you I
love you I love
you I love you I love you
I love
you I love you,

as it always has.

Your hands held a cup filled
with warm sweet coffee,

and then in one sip
you drank the afternoon itself.

Your kitchen is still life

Your kitchen is still life,
and you stand in it, chewing
a piece of carrot, and smiling

because this is where I thanked you
for having me, and this is where
you replied that you hadn't yet.

* * *

In the morning, before I go out to change
the world, you take a golden apple,
and place it in my hand.

The sounds of rushing cars are rare

The sounds of rushing cars are rare
here as the moonlight shines on me.

Desire's patient knocking at the rickety door
of my heart keeps me awake.

When you asked tonight at our table, in the restaurant,
if I wanted anything else, I lied

and focused instead on the rain outside.

The umbrella created a private sky
under which we walked until

the night became silent, and the train
pulled us apart.

Like a glass of water held by an uncertain hand

Like a glass of water held by an uncertain hand
you contained it

that evening as we walked
along the lake and then among the giants
you were quieter.

Your gait was heavy with- perhaps regret, or
exhaustion from the labor of decision

I heard only the sounds of waves,
the pulse of the city, and the language
of your body muttering to itself,

"I must. I will."

When we sat under the terribly cheerful
white fluorescent light,
Hands folded on an inappropriately
bright orange table

you finally revealed it
with a strength I had felt each time
you'd touched me.

I held on to the all the details
in those sad moments;

Black coffee in a cup
Your hand on a napkin, and outside,
Through the windows, darkness.

You read between the lines

You read between the lines
or around them

without a care without
glancing at the clock, you get up
and go.

Words become sounds
no one will hear,
on these brightly lit streets.

You stop to write
on a dusty windowpane with a finger
and walk on

The air shudders behind you

but when you turn, you see only
your shadow on a red brick wall.

I know you are the one

I know you are the one
because it was written on your palms

in ink which left imprints on
my body last night

and because your kisses were like
two red rose petals softly

caressing my skin, softly speaking
telling me what I never knew;

Desire is a need
over which our bodies have control.

Small green apples, or pears
your two eyes wet with something
like love or happiness,

but real happiness

because we do not need
anyone else for that

not even each other.

In the soft light of the streetlamp

In the soft light of the streetlamp
which holds a magic it has retained since
the first night

when in that amber light
I beheld your face for
the first time

I stand where no one knows me by name,
and no one desires to know me.

Memories are carried into the darkness

by the smoke of the cigarette that tilts
between my fingers at a 90° angle of elegant mathematics.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero,

but it will never be so cold
or cold enough

to keep me from traveling to that place,
where you’ll never again wait for me

under the soft light.

OR

On my corner
the amber of light
from the streetlamp

solid as desire:
the first night I saw you
under it.

I stand beneath the concrete sky—
no one desires to know me there.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero:

new thoughts carried into the light
by the smoke from the cigarette that tilts

between my fingers at a 90-degree angle:
nothing is so elegant as its mathematics.

Light travels
the speed of desire
to the corner

where you’ll
never again wait for me
in its soft amber tent.

In a small white box

In a small white box,
inside blue envelopes
that are never opened,
he keeps his memories.

On his table burns a yellow candle,
and in his hand is a black pen,
with which he writes a name
over and over.

He never sleeps
when everyone else sleeps,
although the fear of nightmares
is long gone.

He doesn't dream at all anymore
because all his actions have purpose

and he does not wish for things
he cannot have.

When he wakes up
he's happy.

Each day is like a friend

Each day is like a friend
with the most perfectly kept secret

ready to tell it at any moment,
or when you'd least expect it.

She revealed it to me
as I stepped out this morning,
and as my warmth strained to become cold,
like the air outside my door.

You never really know, no matter how much you plan.

It was the best surprise of all;

a bright red sunrise morning sky,
a shimmering city, and a moment
of pure beauty.