A re-write of an old poem. I’ll probably re-write it forever.
you stand on my coast,
lacing the air with your scent;
until you are more scent than you
your words a dummy trail –
crumbs, leading to an empty room
where the sound of each syllable in my ear is more real than your fingers
this space now, so full of un-you,
how does it live so brightly without even one particle of light?
you are far from here, and so am I;
a story frozen in pictures.
I stand, naked
asking the moon the way
but moons are made of longing.
I want to be led down a river
paced and perfectly navigated-
released to a lucid and easy end to our dreaming
I want to touch slowly
eyes and fingers-
giving you my face
and finding yours inside the cracks between hope and what you were
unzip me with a pure breath
and I will find the space below trust to hold whatever’s left
step off with me and we will free fall in a relentless healing-
singing ourselves clean,
saying grace to our crackings
give me the face of the lion and I will kiss and rub her ears
knowing fierce is will and will is juice and juice is what fires the pistons of joy
bring me your spent infant and I will ooze into your cradle
where we can sleep and wake again-
another sacrifice on the altar of Something More-
born, man and woman,
loving ourselves undone-
surrendering to the movement of tides,
our sweat a baptism,
breathlessness breathing us
and our skin teaching us where we don’t end.
you pull my cord,
and the ocean shows me a light that has never belonged to her
or the moon.
how am I so slow remembering my own reflection?
there is no place to be apart-
even in darkness,
angled as we are,
the sun is real