OF OWN ACCORD
Only for a moment did I forget
that it’s now. My station of honest memory.
Hiatus of moments worn like satin.
Mistaken leads followed. Of own accord. You can
miss scabs, the grazing of cuticles.
The patina of silvery blood. Let’s revisit those
Conversations. The stucco of dried branches, leaves
of flint. These etchings, left over from childhood.
Are you now certain existence is worth your while,
though we are set apart by dreams and the scale of cold.
That it’s worth connecting with this place,
which, once again, has repelled us.
To fall into addiction. Into the screaming night
suspended on the cusp of dawn. At the appropriate
time, to use pause, deft cuts closing
in on your name. Fearing oversights.
And crossing like carnivals across the rails of eyes,
the stations of lips. The glistening surface of a hand.
Feeling the charge course between our skins.
To bind in one: you, me. Mercy as silent as the Host.
Where do drops
of fear wander?
Perhaps today you
won’t come upon me.
against our bodies.
All animated. During
the night cold winds blow in.
I will enter a giant
riots of leaves
and the rumbling of sands.
The dance of stones.
The flow of hardened earth.
For ever and ever, we live
in our own dreams alone.
Have I again disappointed
and delivered shame?
Speak, even when the only
thing speaking through you
is pity. There is always
some sort of stillness, of standstill.