An anthology of our love. Drawn crinkled
Curtains. Capacious
day. Another in and out cloud-filled sky.
I’m sick and tired of writing about my rapturous crap. Drowning
In my own self-pity.(my real)curiosity is
Of your soft inner thighs(and the smell)
Of fresh cut grass. Now
As the wind kicks in. Your sunflowers
swaying in a huddled group. Your
stories are beautiful. It touches my senses (fills my eyes)
There are dead crows everywhere. Lobster restrictions.
In the crispness of dusk, people flee the streets, as
the mosquitoes rise from the marshes, weathervanes twist sharply,
hammering keyboards in the darkened day, wondering if your lips
Are achievable. The irrelevance of my brightly-lit-ego-marquees
In the hushed fog of early morning bike rides, head bowed in prayer,
wondering if you are there, who died in a porch laden sleep,
though I still see you walking with all the ghosts,
of all the aunts, in long summer dresses, a pinched smile
a long traveled mile
To the Fair in August, and the smell of manure
scrap yard ferris wheel with half the lights out,
Some blinking. Creaking rust and happy children
Screaming innocence of blacked-eyed suzie
bemoans its fate to a vase as
New Construction covers the northern lights,
parsley crab pie, an internet recipe, a mouthful of fire, spices,
cooling on the windowsill, microwave madness, purity of steaming rice
Spread out before me. Impressed. You made me smile.
You made me cry. Like a baby. One day we’ll make love to this
Violin
One Day
I’m going to revise this poem
GCH
