My heart
full of cobwebs so I am unable
To express
how the feeling of your skin
Brushes
light around my eyes. So hard to
Form with
words of a feeling that just falls.
It hit me on
the head and now I can’t
Tell what is
blind and what is needed to
Be seen. You
take my hand which has laced itself
Into a pocket of bliss and carelessness
And refuses
to be pulled out and held.
But you with that kindness in your eyes makes
The fear shed away and allow an embrace
Of passion
and truth with just our palms and
Fingers
hugging until our skin weaves together
And we are
bound with not just words. Something
Better than
words is the sight of being undercover
Tracing
invisible car paths on your skin
While your
warmth is expelled through your arms and
Legs into
our bubble of floating sheets
And unspoken
affection. The words floating
around in an instant are hard to capture
in that jar that I gave to you aren’t they?
You want to pull them from my throat and slap
Them on your chest so they seep to your heart
And swirl
around until you feel enough.
But I would
rather crawl in there myself
And let you feel my shapeless words and
emotions
Stretch out
from the valves and search around in
Your veins until that warmth sheds out as
words
I need. Then
I will clap them with my hands
And keep
them forever and force them to multiply.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
For Love
by Robert Creeley
Yesterday
I wanted to
speak
of it, that sense above
the
others to me
important
because all
that
I know derives
from
what it teaches me.
Today,
what is it that
is
finally so helpless,
different,
despairs of its own
statement,
wants to
turn
away, endlessly
to
turn away.
If
the moon did not ...
no,
if you did not
I
wouldn’t either, but
what
would I not
do,
what prevention, what
thing
so quickly stopped.
That
is love yesterday
or
tomorrow, not
now.
Can I eat
what
you give me. I
have
not earned it. Must
I
think of everything
as
earned. Now love also
becomes
a reward so
remote
from me I have
only
made it with my mind.
Here
is tedium,
despair,
a painful
sense
of isolation and
whimsical
if pompous
self-regard.
But that image
is
only of the mind’s
vague
structure, vague to me
because
it is my own.
Love,
what do I think
to
say. I cannot say it.
What
have you become to ask,
what
have I made you into,
companion,
good company,
crossed
legs with skirt, or
soft
body under
the
bones of the bed.
Nothing
says anything
but
that which it wishes
would
come true, fears
what
else might happen in
some
other place, some
other
time not this one.
A
voice in my place, an
echo
of that only in yours.
Let
me stumble into
not
the confession but
the
obsession I begin with
now.
For you
also
(also)
some
time beyond place, or
place
beyond time, no
mind
left to
say
anything at all,
that
face gone, now.
Into
the company of love
it
all returns.
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