The consummation of
sorrow & regret
of impulse & blind intent,
makes the mistake
of believing that things we leave behind
will somehow change
or else disappear completely
when finally we
of bad-faith held
to itself & nothing else,
running too thin;
the hideous birth
of conjoined twins,
who want only to be loved,
& are as beautiful
as they are ugly,
just like us.
These trees swaying
in the wind; whispered
strange communication between
above & soil beneath; a gift given
from one to the other, not
simply objects but
of absence within presence.
behind words that define us, thoughts
now flowing forward surround us
like pollen, like fallen
a vast symmetry of blossoming energy.
We speak of the life we had, of
the one we now have &
those we still want all
suspended at once.
One choice must destroy the others
in this moment
of each other
as it lingers
& the rest
cannot be expressed…
“…poetry makes nothing happen” -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
The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person in a place
you swore never to forget or
let the silence
& the songs & the long moments
of hands twisting time with bodies
entwined in nights we wish would never die,
yet all things must eventually fade away
but time hasn’t taken us yet & so
there’s no reason
to forget everything even as we
let go of what once was.
Some nights we cannot see the Moon,
but during others it’s
repeats the silver nights
precluding the golden mornings
“on peut pas vivre d’amour et d’eau fraich”
& 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 die with the grace
of living things.
Is this why I regret everything?