The puzzle of asymmetry,
of surface depth,
of depth surfacely touched.
Stones that heat the air that then
heats your body;
Or rays that heat your body
that then heats the air?
A course of thought
rolling smooth in one direction, but not quite capable
of boomeranging back to complete a circle.
I think I’ve gone on living expecting circularities
of this kind.
Regardless of the mundane and mounting examples
In moments alone and with others,
I’ve always sought the return to warmth,
despite rising evidence of no such symmetries
Not spending all my days in a thoughtless daze, but that mood set in last night–one of abandon. I let the wheel go and drove several feet on the opposite lane.
A nightmare followed. If I were to describe its affect, it would be something like being let down in exactly the way you feared you would, but that you would not have expected to actually occur: the feeling of having an unlikely possibility actualize itself.
Now I sit and keep planning, knowing there is no secret to feeling better through planning, but planning because it gives the semblance of safety and control, though I very well know its legs to be as wobbly as mine.
Would have liked to phrase it differently, but I couldn’t allow myself to write down the sentence as it wanted to be. Rearranging the words was just as difficult, so I stripped it of all other words but “love” and went back to bed.
Today, you consume me with the voracity
of my own thoughts
I toss in your pain, yet have no
image of you
It’s a matter of age, but more than that
you are a world remote
“I’m doing it all to myself,” I think, in bed, emotions clenching. Bring it down and descend. Resistance. I try again to bring it down and again it rises and I lift, too.
“You are the apex of mental and physical beauty.”
“I don’t even know what to do with you.”
“I love you.”
The roar of frustration, of not knowing how to secure that which has become too dear to even think of in such terms.
“Maybe there’s nothing we can do with each-other,” I say.
My tenderness has the capacity to crush you, so forceful it is, so charged and so immense. How can you know from the grip of it that you are in the grip of it? I release it and see the sky at your feet. And you: out of frame.
Oh, the more I start to live my life outside of you the more I come to understand your life outside of me.
In the shifting consolation of my own paranoia–
pardon the adriftness, but stay.
In a turn of phrase, wrapped up in the same sheets
of metal coil, matted clay.
Oh, it’s words, but never just:
when tendons jump at lip formations,
globular base to overreaching lust,
Tell me I am that thing again (acerbic probes undo the versed humility).
Cradle the rusted memory on my golden arm (pity it in its imperishability).
All directions now known as many limits (that present the possibility).
I sample through a spread of jam jars on your table, because—it seems—I can’t sit so,
not even in the full cushioned surroundings of where you normally dwell,
not while you aren’t there,
not while it’s empty.
I’m at the brink of a leave and that’s why—perhaps—I’m allowing myself
the full relish of domestic sweetness, without reservation,
to carry over its peculiar comforts when I’m aloft,
in celestial sway.
Your voice remains constant through time: I hear it more distinctly in your letters now.
My voice: points of brilliance, points of intricacy, fallen into slackness and strain.
Couched in a drawer are more envelopes than I remember receiving,
but less revealed therein than you remember revealing.
semblance of order in anyone’s head
or chaos, elsewhere, instead.
a rising weightless dust,
burdened by tiers of earthen trust.
change assimilated, the shifting
of visible something, of sensible lifting.
but through what bundle of troubled mass
does the wave of terror make its pass?
to quake the organs just enough
to force a motion, breathless laugh?
Settled on the wrong surface
Pulsating base, spiraling middle,
Where to rest?
To stop you with a contortion of face
With eyelids thinner, lower, more diaphanous.
A trace of capillary, twitching, asymmetrically weary.
Drift back and close up all the beginnings.
Against my interest in you, against.
Where’s the creative jolt, Bab? All there is to my right is a green wire basket of marbles. They say the elderly (like babies) are drawn to shiny things, don’t they? Because they lose sense acuity, or something of that sort? Infants are just developing it…good to see things roll right back–full marble–to their nascency.
But I’m neither child nor senior–not in my lying presence. If truth be told, I am very much both and nothing in-between. It’s as though I was born ancient and began to exhaust that epoch in my childhood, and, as soon as adolescence thought it could creep in, childhood raised its head, having been smothered all its proper time by some sage-like caution and “maturity.”
It matters who sits next to whom,
and what I think of the arrangement in the dark
as arrangements get obscured and imagination comes down
to make up for weak sense data.
There’s an awkward push, I can tell you’re trying,
using your hands that way—
without the mindless automaticity of one
not deliberating basic motion.
Something in your face is askew,
breath collapses body,
a superficial sink into unruliness, and settling feels to be
a lopsided deal.
“The Now is just this: to be no more
just when it is.”