“…poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” -W.H. Auden
A wish to kiss your eyelids &
the heavy weight of images
Guillotine quick & clean
in the most golden morning light
we’ve ever seen in our lives,
nothing but beauty would survive;
light without darkness means nothing,
so maybe joy needs suffering.
Is there even any memory you
would want to lose?
poem is impotent
& yet still it persists:
to take those heavy images
& leave you only with those that help you
& then when
the morning light made me choke as
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light
curved like the branches above us
skin within which poison blends with pollen
& flowers blossom before I pluck them
to place in your hair where
they will wither & die.
The past still lingers in the present,
& refuses to leave with the grace
of living things.
This is what regret means:
never to forget someone
knowing of all the lives that could have been;
for the last time.
Pressing flowers between the pages of
stolen poetry books,
how long the process took,
if it would work or just cover us
in the evanescing colours
of broken corollas…
Gladly wasting away the day
we’d discussed stolen poetry books &
distinctions & equivalence;
the thrill of transgression,
the ambiguity of possession.
Currents of nuance ran through us
as consequence of curvatures
of our spines &
where the light bends, blends & divides.
When the flowers faded &
we knew wasted time is not a wasted life,
that our ideas about true beauty
make it hard to live…
but if you promise to stay
I'll promise not to leave.