Receding

I've swallowed words for months,
but now they're burning in my throat,
and now the wind surprises,
     dropping
                hope.

A friend sits close for
             stroke,
             soul mate of fear.
             She sits too close.

Last night
                I missed the stun of moon.
But in a way, in your sway, found a different glow.

In your arms,
                              my heart slows next to your scent,
even as my mind's
bent on instinct of escape.

Because love is a fugitive, covering her tracks
           and this
            time,
with luck of rain.

So, now, seems you're the only one who knows the way.
                                                                               Still, I'm stilling breath and biding time,
waiting on a plan that needs not need.

Because when it's black
                  the forest fairies swirl
glutinous and brazen, leaning into whisper.

 And they sound like you.

Lying in a mess of limbs,
               my own rebel,
then surrender somewhere above my head.

Your hand knows the way to mine,
          and I can almost believe then, when, quick,
                it flies like night-loving fluttering bright to light,
                     latches, intertwines.

Creature of the wild-wood, you blend, and so then, I do, too.

A flash flickers against the back of my neck
and you reach over and slowly, unriddle what aches,
                                   so when, then, your eyes are right above mine,
                                                                               I almost think you see.
I am on the edge
        of answer
when I arrive and too, when four words are made three,
but there in the center I forget the turn.

It's only, later, in paler light of city, that I find complexity in conclusion.
                     
The Sunday Whirl