10:44 & Counting

for a first night it feels like a long long waiting.

I am too far past any point of argument

or contention, take it all and promise

every single last drop, piece, portion:

even my ego has curled up in the

corner of perception, nothing in the room

to startle its arrogance or fearful

self preservation. All there is to fulfill the eternal moment

is love; it all spills out when you unzip me from my

narrow seams; your marrow mining.

the gaze. the syllable alone would seep

through the layers, the more than a few years

wrapped in mountains and other forgetfuls

all speak in soft tones to the very liquid

center blue, blue as the very ajna of the flame.

Like the first light out of the cocoon breaking,

the first really ripe summer peach, twisted

from the stone. Because, If i could write sonnets

I would write a sonnet for you; my fallen vibration

in the smallest smallest frequent rememberings.

because, because in me I hide the shudder,

the terror that beauty is all I can ever feel rippling

underneath, like a heartbeat. O, silly love songs;

where's John Lennon when you need him?