Eye Am

the things I would say

if they were not heresies: (sucking

out the stains I marked by finger tips,

in coils to count seasons, the track of veins

upon your interiors, a full embracing

of manuscripts. writing

 

down the bones) I am not certain of

any one thing since you arrived; you

blinded all synapses, shorted all my anxious

nerve endings swallowed by dark, the eclipse

of how many many days worthwhile pass

completed to penetrate me, all my life

is a sieve, an

 

abbreviation. I need you

to see how the sunrises are my

anticipation, I wade through the glory

of honey sherbet skies,

lurking with mouth open, I lie

because I cannot admit to

the soft sanguine damage,

this heart-shaped organ

licked clean like the plate.

 

Can you hear the haze

of lawnmower-songbirds?

the thick shock of hair felled,

freed by shears from your crown,

resolved by my fingers; night

after night, I almost call out

 

your name. where have I been

all this time, blinking through years,

inconsequences, filling out the

curves, the treasons against me

I've harbored unspoken; be kind

to my eloquent, unfetterd devotion,

my maple sugar inconsistencies,

I find in your hands, I crumble

 

too easily. the angle of heat,

or meeting (again) for the first time;

I can see the swirl of smaller worlds

in beams of air, suspended,

up-ended in that one vast look,

the spot-lit and sunny afternoon

glares, the whitewashed walls

of all the times spent wandering

ashamed, head bowed like limp

august prairies, the sweat

of the upper lip or the brow,

like Cain. I wish I

in my deepest being, was more

profoundly made.

Reviews

[Greg Skura]

Wow! I completely enjoyed this poem. Intensely vivid imagery! Thank you for sharing!