Epilogue


“but I was only bruised”

—Denise Levertov

I thought you were a butterfly,

But I was just a construct.

I thought I was an open wound,

But you were not a surgeon.

I thought you were my subtext,

But I was just a shallow novel.

I thought I had healed,

But still I wrote this poem.

(November 27, 2018)

Broken Telegraph Lines

Stop. I’ve said too much

to you. Stop. Like smoke,

I hold traces: conversations,

finger tips along my arm.

Stop. I cannot. Stop.

Love crushed me. Stop.

Still you run rampant

through my poems. Stop.

For years without reply.

Stop. I want you still

To say something. Stop.

What vague answers

Can I give you? Stop.

Other than this. Stop.

(November 21, 2018)

Leaf Fall

7811

 

Somewhere, not here

A field lies open,

Unframed, without

Mind, as if lost,

Waiting on ritual.

 

In Increments,

I have changed.

Each day dawns

Into itself;

There is no other.

 

Hear, and here

As well, I

Still seek

Her across

These echoes:

 

She followed

A fragile winter

Ice across a lake.

I am cold; the wood

Grown dark.

 

(October 30, 2018)

Good Fences

Spotlights illuminate empty stage with dark background. 3d rendering

 

There is nothing here, she says

holding out her heart.

 

He demurs in silence and

refuses to speak his part.

 

No matter, she improvises,

each stone’s cut smooth…

 

…and takes its place, he smiles,

like fate into its groove.

 

There are no walls, she says,

when nothing’s to divide.

 

The walls are real, he says,

everyone has something to hide.

 

Again, she offers her heart;

and, he has forgotten his part

 

(October 21, 2018)

Nets

images

 

The river runs dry,

and he has no bait

for stones. Distantly,

delusion shimmers

a claim on intimacy

somewhere beyond

the moving horizon.

He writes towards

her, casting out lines

in hopes of catching her

in a turn of phrase,

where she will see

herself, and come

to know his slow intent.

 

(September 7, 2018)

 

falling tree

IMG_9794

 

With each assertion

tempered with doubt,

I quaver

and do not move—

as if a leaf

in autumn

indecisively about to fall.

 

Always on the cusp

of desire,

I stutter and fail.

What I would say

folds obliquely

into silence.

 

As if what one says matters,

when no one is there to hear.

 

(August 4, 2018)

Problematic Musings

 

Unless a care be taken to repair,

happiness is a tenuous lacework,

fragile and personal; the past

and present knot, like fate,

into seemingly intricate patterns

where one thread, time-worn

or simply stressed, snaps,

and the whole unravels into dust.

It comes to a question of hugs

or hurts, as if the two could easily

divide along traceable fault lines,

rather than entwine like caduceus.

I am conflicted as to the intent:

to be wary, or to pretend content.

 

(August 2, 2018)

The Weight of Regret

Court-Weight-Scale

to lost friends

 

The weight of silence

is not the same

as the weight

of absence;

anymore than the weight

of disappearance

can be the same as

the weight of being left.

 

The weight of forgetting

is much lighter

than the weight

of the forgotten—

for it does not carry the weight

of all that can be remembered.

 

(July 25, 2018)

Obstacles

522506957-640x640

 

as in rain

arms out

head back

laughing

only my voice

in the way

 

I open to silence

 

(July 23, 2018)

A Stumbled Fall

teacup-sunshine

after w.-a.-r.  with apologies

 

Static allowed no pauses

to slip his supplications

into their conversations.

 

Filled with honey, his mouth,

spoke too slowly, too low,

to be heard over the swarm

of bees infesting her ears.

 

The tea cup had no depth

beyond the damp leaves

he fingered metaphorically.

 

It was too late to go back,

to be what he was not,

to grow his silent desires

from the salted earth.

 

(May 28, 2018)