rain.

what is it
about the rain?
which brings
pain to these joints,
serenity to this heart,
contemplation to this mind,
precision to these fingertips–

 

the [extant] i.
ensconced :: cocooned :: within a stillness

interrupted only by
the soothing white noise of drip*drop*drip*drop…

 

a piddling subterfuge toward escapism
(sometimes i am fooled.)

and yet,
if i am granted some semblance of tranquility.
who is this _______ to protest?

These streets

 

do you remember that time?
that first time we lost ourselves in the streets of boston?
it was a be-witching hour, as frosted (snow) flakes careened toward our unprotected faces, carried on a frigid wind.
we bought some real frosted flakes at cvs, the only place with warm lights and an unlatched door.

that’s not true.

but i wanted to buy some frosted flakes; and in retrospect it would’ve been so appropriate.

 

do you remember that time?
when i met you at the bus station?
you were wearing yellow.  i brought you flowers.
you had baggage.  i wheeled it behind us as we walked.

 

do you remember that time?
our chance meeting on beacon?
you looked so lovely that night.
(and i hadn’t kissed you in years.)
we stayed out past our bedtimes.

wandering
and i drove you home.

 

i know these streets, now.
they have at once become my daily routine.

but they carry such memories, too.

More than simply, things.

 

her gossamer presence

settling alight grained surface and porous fabric.
invisible but not forgotten.  felt though not perceived.
its stewardship has come to me.

and so.

with each rise and fall of my figure i endeavor to stay.  my.  breath.
with each proximate pass of the hand i hesitate ever so,   slightly.

mindful to avoid disturbing such peace, so as to grant this ethereal substance occasion to seep in and indelibly stain.

invisible but not forgotten.  felt though not perceived.

a thursday night ponderance

 

are we
but figments of time and space?
filaments through which unarticulated energy

 

may spark.

 

and give rise to…

a fleeting existence (purpose, really?)

is this humanity comprised merely of a loose affiliation of atoms
outnumbered even by the microscopic stuff, found
both on and within these corporeal forms?

if i am more not matter than matter
do i still matter?

Rose

if life be compared to a rose
you are neither the petals
nor the stem.
nor the thorns, though such sharpness does warily
present itself in your wit and charm.

no.

you are as the hue from which meaning is derived.
the color – never fading as suns fall and petals wilt –
remaining long after life has departed.
growing yet deeper and more full. in quiet places.

Beautiful is the Night

 

it is twilight.

as the sun retreats beyond the horizon
a permeating darkness fills the air
conjoining us and the stars.

one.

two.

three.

seconds fall, each with the deliberation
of a thousand years.
my eyelids follow suit.

and i, in that heartbeat
without intending it
nor fully comprehending how
encounter peace in its most rarefied form.

beautiful is the night
in which you and i, two adventurers we
marry the earth in slumber.

You Will Know My Love

 

grant that i may tarry awhile in this.
for though my tongue and neither my heart
possess the faculty upon which to base such lofty verse
i do find truth.

you will know
my love, not by the dexterity
with which I assemble
the words that impart to you how I do.
but by the lack thereof.
by the moments
in which justice falls without my reach,
moments attributed not to any
deficiency of passion
but to the sheer magnitude of this
foolhardy
endeavor.

yet –
i do not relegate myself to reciting
greeting. card. fodder.

but with dogged determination, continue.
my wayward journey to your heart.

though I will try, I will fail.
though I will fail, I am compelled.

and you will know my love, verily,
as it reveals to you its oblique nature
in ample words undeserving of your perfection.

Coats

coats,
worn today worn. years ago
carried a tenor redolent of a younger me.
remnants of possessions,
placed unwittingly
into an indeterminate hibernation
by past hands. they wait for me.
in lined pockets.
they do not well perceive the caress of time.
as we do, us HUMANS who become
weathered with such unenviable ease.
insulated deep within,
they wait for my absent-minded reach.
patiently, for it may never come.