Leonine moths on the window screen and what
he may have noted, the dalmatian dog walker,
Korean cargo a-bob in from the harbor
where fleet formations (old bandit ghosts) break
with sleepy nudges. Between islands the tight-rope
sways in unconvincing ease; the quiet’s been never
perfected. What’s eyeless in the wall feels out holes to
rooms, for light to cheek, the tea & tins of burning
leaves, our make-up made of what seeps out.
These aren’t tellings of spare parts, but guesses
spoken from a wicker chair, a victorious reclaiming of
kinder prizes easy to forget on windy tarmacs.
They name it a routine affair of love. I call it
a part of the old anatomy, bony and flesh.
Tags:
sv / JW
to our love
All those nights with the on-lights and windows open to the world,
conductive surface a sheath for wandering charges.
Soft-spoken alleyways & shaky letters so boldly burning—but distant, but a hum of
uphill activities, or the wrap-around porch of the addict house
So full of lasts and the casual recognition that comes with last-chance landscapes
and long looks at the sidewalk where one is tracked by ghosts
And how the ghosts thrive on years of sleep so broken.
My folksy fold-out bed, drawbridge pulley chain,
Countertop of blueprints, wormy apples, a carriage with a slight catch
and a lot of people cheering somewhere through the trees.
How precious are the later hours, but also the mornings, for photo face & slacks
and being out of sight, behaving badly, a skirt on a hanger
Ever-crisp and right, the strands of an assigned poem poking out
from the side of something barely real, waiting for you to walk me.
Tags:
jw / SV
to our love
