Your Poetry Dot Com - tiny trinkets. . .

better. . . to be gone
better. . . to be dreaming in colour
better. . . a pause. . . than no sound. . . at all
better. . . understood. . . than sheer absence of what was

y o u & I

we will not expect our fathers. . .
their ghosts or their other worldly counsel,

we'll not notice the loss, pouring into the big boots
spilling over. . .
forgetful of what we've donned
yes, each of us
enveloped
in our seperate distractions
'grapple with what we thought we could not.

how do you measure distress
do you calculate these things at all?

m a y b e t h a t m i r r o r. . . i s. . . t o o s h a r p

in my dreams our colours are manifest
everything. . . is f r a g i l e
& the struggle, surely does not match
what should be missed. . .

better. . . to be occupied
better. . . the impossible attempt
better. . . hoping for the best. . . sheltering the worse
better. . . to strain for sound or trinket, any swaying in the breeze

&. . .

was the assassin stained in my breast. . . or yours. . .
that paling, ambitious bird, that frail dark. . . ness
that small hibernater. . .
spilling black art
appalling
& consecrating
the tiny misfits that we'd become

was the fault, then prescribed. . . perhaps ordained. . .
unavoidable. . .
cutting out each sorghum eye of our very storms
cutting deeply into
not each other but our own harrowed symptoms.
I feel this sophisticated affliction
in soundless bones
in rain-drenched, contemplative afternoons
in the grinding sorcery of solitude
& you should know
it echoes your sophist gylph
your somewhere soul
that indelible stroke. . .
as sought-after soothing
tingles in the air,
mere space glimmers
between the murmur of a sonneteer
& gentleness

better. . . to be painless
better. . . to dream sunsets
better. . .

y o u & I

we'll dance seven preludes, in dark s o u l. . .
cavernous
we'll radiate mint julep toasts. . . to ones
who can't quite recall. . . who never knew or thought to
who did not witness our Icarus-like tendencies
with pain or life
or the strange, hypothecated hearts, we're now so afraid to pledge.
we'll take inventory of blessings. . .
yes. . .

yes, forgetting. . . sometimes
as laughter becomes shameless
stale ideas become parade, manna for the mind-feast
hysteria will dissipate into iambic terms

better. . . to be stained
better. . . to invite laughter
better. . . to tingle, dangerously
better. . . to be. . . than not to be

&. . . I. . .

recall your rosewater eyes
forlorn, in some forgotten, baby picture
a place of peeling now
where truths are spat. . . from universal ties
when stranger limbs than legs
& grasping
become the tale-tale signs of orbits, we'd forsaken.
& I'll attempt
if only in my mind
that reconciliatory dance
in chambers of time & appreciation
with gesturings
of all I am
or will ever be
spilling past rotund speech
to coalesce in the shadows of our apocrypha
pulling swollen promises from the dust-bowl of their deaths
pulling empty insides out & coaxing
every colour
to choke the madness
from our flowering minds. . .
but they won't scream the scars away
only soothe the burning blanks
& perhaps. . . we'll realize
what we missed. . .

better. . . to be. . . than not to be

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