I've swallowed words for months,
but now they're burning in my throat,
and now the wind surprises,
A friend sits close for
soul mate of fear.
She sits too close.
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
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,
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
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