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Thursday, July 17, 2014

Blushed at First Being

as I write this
you stare back patiently; holding me:
a parent with a child's drawing
trying to read me,
to understand why
there was no choice but to be
three parts light
one part dark
into which I disappear,
wanting to fill
each dusky vacancy
you see in me;

where I go to be alone
to steer these crayoned sounds,
                    and to brighten these blank walls
papered by sobriety
with the colours you give me;
and when I'm gone too long
I hear you call to be with me,
as though jealous somehow
of this mistress poetry; though
if only you knew how I speak to her
constantly of you; only of you:

when I stare at you and try not to show
how your gentle beauty feels
when it reaches me, and how it touches me,
leaving me breathless
like an intolerable dream
taking hold
of the best of me;
where you wake dizzyingly
on the sense of a threshold
just crossed -- then you blink,
a hinge closes and you wake again;

and I wake to find you in my waking
and sleeping reality; you are there
                    in that very moment
where the life in the air
enters the lungs to bring you near to me;
for even a share of the atoms
that sing of you give life to me,
and your hair alone, the finest strands of you
are enough to hold me closer than you'll ever know;
for where could I go without you?
                    where would I sleep?
when your heart is my home
and the keeper of my flame? and our souls

                    twinned towns between which I roam,
and I meet you there time and again,
at that point that goes beyond where
we translate feelings as thoughts in the mind,
like a mother trying to understand her son:
one comes from the other
but still needs explanation,
                    yet we need none, no longer;
we have become the one
I never thought existed
except in dreams we twisted
to try and make sense of self;

or in attempts to make peace with life:
some with their death
some with their gods and goddesses,
others their birth
or their violent sensibilities;
                    but I want to talk of the love in us,
what are you and I? but eternity pulled back
from the setting of shadows, that one part dusk
now but a distant trail lit up in a bright sky,
like a spring morning
dipped in long golden light,
as though delicately reaching out

to something important
that will never fade out of sight
in a haze of dust -- for the horizon of the heart
has no final line, its sun always rises
even before the living see its first spark;
full of sounds so deserving
                    of this youthful summer of scented fire
that can heat, warm, burn, or without even touching
lightly inhabit the skin,
like a newborn blushed at first being,
caught out, not in shame as one undone,
but primed potently by the understanding
in the very pores that hunger within,
that love's will -- in its first cry and its last sigh --
will always be done between you and I.

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