The church was
p
o
t
a
and sloping alongside
were faint sun h
i
l
l
s.
people singing hymns
in violet, purple, lilac,
indigo, lavender, pink
disguised
in rouge,
eye-lashes,
perfumes, curls
witnessing nuptials
of a beautiful, nervous couple
on a malt evening
raining rainbows.
Between his work tools
he spares a thought,
it is enough
for eye and eye to meet
word and word
to stand side by side
It is the rhythm
of question and answer
but the real thing
is him simmering
down your breath
as you take him home
on a long memory
and google up his name
helpless,
sick, almost obsessed
in the cold winter morning
you know where he lives
his age
even his email address
what next?
close your eyes and
visualize
every breath has met
every thought
every gut
you know this is love
and you can do nothing
about it.
Defeatist.
wait for it
like a mosquito
to insert its proboscis
slowly at first
then quick, rapid
fast
the world is spinning out of control
his mind is spinning with food thoughts
this drink
would be enough
for the whole night
or perhaps not
if his stomach is libidinous
you wait
with a flat hand
and rush
squash
blood smeared with black insect body
there you have your muse covered
in first draft
Yeah-I-want-to-communicate-so-much-and-you-can’t-understand-a-thing-and-I-know-wisdom-is-not-the-only-thing.
Not-the-only-thing-because-when-I-smile-you-smile-a-bit-or-two-after-me-and-you-chew-on-your-nails-to-show-you-need-milk-and-I-want-to-tell-you-that-now-is-the-time,-your-mother-is-ticking-with-energy-and-wisdom-and-she-can-tell-you-so-much-about-the-world-and-what-is-new
and-you-dream-into-my-face-as-if-you-always-knew
and-by-the-time-you-would-get-talking-I-would-forget-my-syllables
and-by-the-time-you-rein-on-those-alphabets-I-would-forget-the-snippets-of-my-epiphany
and-when-you-grow-young, I-would-have-no teeth-to-tell-the-wisdom-through
and-even-if-I-write-it-down-it-would-vanish-one-day
and-you-would-have-so-much-more-by-the-time-you-reach-where-I-am-now-you-would-know-more-than-I-could-tell-anyways,
and so I sit down lotus-styled and continue feeding you your milk.
if you wait
an exploding moment comes
where nothing stirs
not air
not leaf
except a bird or two may fly
it is here
that two roads diverge
one into idleness
the other, super-idleness
the station after that is sleep
sleep is a boy
who has been missing
from his place
who is nowhere to be found
not even under the desk
not near the clay computer
not outside the room
not where the barrels sound
with rainwater dripping in them
not near the outside trees
or the hunt house
sleep has escaped
leaving his satchel
behind
its crummy
because it would be recess time
and he is not as far as the ground stretches
the podium
the stage
the assembly line
sleep has probably gone home.
scanty rain
against a breezy window pane
po-e-tree running through my vein
I am no farmer
to complain
