patience
is
a direction
—
another dance
before the night is done
circle slowly
around the roomthink again
what might have been
—
intent
—
emerson’s eye
forms the circle
the first space
—
my life
in conversation
at table
with friends
strangers welcomed
wine flows
glasses clink
words weave
between
warp and woof
—
near the garden
a hint of roses
edges towards me
a presence
on the periphery
like a trace
of laughter
after
she has left
the room
—fear weaves
like frost
—
we each bow down
to smell a different rose
I am other
—
and of course
he had heard
it all before
the stock lines
falling from lips
he longed to kiss
so what the words
meant escaped
unchanged by context
falling between them
like bricks to a wall
—
again a condensate forms on the glass
and a fog pulsates along the back fence
one of our cats slip between the pink ladies
hoping for more than our safe offering
—
within his sarcophagus
this tomb of words
he hid from the love
which would approach him
until he vanished from himself
—a rabbit a few laps away
from the protective briar
sits still as his death
near a dandelion and waits
for her to notice him
—
true to himself
the chameleon’s skin
becomes him
—
we merge
from “Sonnet” (Lines 1-14, tenth syllables)
(December 17, 2011-February 21, 2012)
subtext 