Cauter

I felt it before it even loosened
the strings that kept the feeling
taut, confined by
the breath in your lungs, the
absence of your exhale
punctures me, fills me with
expectations, the eye of that bone
needle, I can resist
just about everything
over the phone, over distance,
but thinking of you,
cauterizes the knots
I tied to keep my hands put.
Sitting there, easily slipped over (I
always had small wrists), so
quickly turned over like
the seconds and days
alone in the company of all
who know me. It's like that
golden song and the palindrome
I know why I'm here
finally coming-about
becoming both wind in my nodding
schooner (and the mast); a wild
world still waits on the breaking and
the sail is full of weeks
worth of my favorite laughter.

I wouldn't change a single thing,
even the guilt, supposedly swimming through
the compromising
composition of feelings played
with the same harmonic of Spanish
guitars or the cello of
my body. I'm always in tune.
Always seeing
and feeling and sensing into
your symphonies. The ones that
make no sound except for
how the thought of you travels
inside my palms, in salt and glimmer
trekking the dharma
trails, in lines that shows up
in threes, just to make certain.
everything else is pure coincidence.
Just leave me that corner,
to haunt you. to be adoring
in my watchful spectre sensorial.
the last drop of a coming-too-quickly
liquid humid summer:
I can taste it along my upper lip.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

even your pain is a Big Toy on the playground of words...even your mourning is a song...

[Wolfe Greytome]

I rarely have trouble figuring out what a piece is trying to say, but this one has baffled me on my first reading. I do feel, though, that several more readings will reveal a powerfully written piece.