Thursday, January 17, 2013

promiscuity

How could I not love
this silence, thick as marble
pressing down the green weeds and
downy thistles, heavy in the air
like bees nuzzling the wisteria,
summer enslabbing us,
stifling in our premature grave?
How could this quiet not come
open-armed, a last embrace
spread like a dream of flight
above the drowned mirror
the lake plays for the moon,
the work of roots and springs
seething in the awful dark?
I am like the seasons,
meandering in indulgent repetition,
clicking my heels and tapping
my cane against the curb.
Soundless, I slip and fall,
all my clawing just another embrace,
my least failing blessed as love.

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