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Sunday, January 18, 2009

Artefacts of Lovemaking

i

I look around
the bedroom, close up to God,
where it held our souls, now
a deserted kingdom

of hair wraps and parts
of your skirt;
some books, a vase,
a glass ring you used to wear,
artefacts of our lovemaking,

something dawns in me,
more than words in poetry,
words with the heart of a lion
asking questions
that were never dared before,

of finding faith
in a frenzied sea,
drowning out sighs
in patterns of a panting rhythm
that keeps me awake
remembering.

ii

I stand at such windows
where memory and desertion
take hold to watch religions swap,

our nights over
the day convenes for mass,
its waking faithful smash
the statues of night,
stars thrown out
of its pagan temple,

foolish conversions --
for in no way does it mean
the light of the gods is dead.

iii

a warm morning air
moves in me
as I used to move in you,

my soul still remembers
how an August morning yawns;

the air seems an ethereal
adolescent form of you,
indistinct memories, with a quick stride,
cross these morning hills
in a victory march,

your energy charges
through the atmosphere
of growing light,

sunshine wakes the soul,
-- it's a street cleaner y'know --
stretching at my window,
and I think of you.

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