Lectulus

In creating, the only hard thing's to begin...
                                                         -James Russell Lowell


You are Adam
        and
I am Eve,
pre-fall
         and so
vigil held in
pre-nostalgia
waned with wick of wariness,
lessening into daybreak's risk,
and light rising, I signed
             the words, I love you,
then spoke them plain
        saying all I never thought
              I would.
Because lathered in your
before and after
kisses,
        somehow
                        what once gushed
syrupy
seems now likely.

So, here I am, in the wiggle room
  of luck,
believing in the blessing,
            given
           not
by choice or virtue,
but won
by fight,
and the danger of practicality,
looming just above-
        ever easing.

I offer to wisdom all previous
grieving,
repossess
    the wonder.
There is suffering
            still to steer,
              I'm sure,
but together
we
row rapids
  of redemption,
        each wave of what
once was
            and
reaching
            graveyard of the end
                             of what
                                  was once
before,
we'll dig up vision's
bones,
breathe bloom
into the stilted mouths of
                         mocking cynics.
We will
           laugh at sighs and stretching
                         silence,
because now,
voice,
legitimized,
and artificial phrases,
yes, sublimest art.
More is more, and I will serve you
happily
       in return for heart,
because you never gave up
                    chase,
                        and catching me,
you held me long in hidden gap,
wove, like craft, a frame of healing,
waited out derangement
            of my feverish cries
                                              and I
survived.

So, now I give my life to you,
                        my love,
undo
softly, gently,
    false covering of figs,
      abandon fear.
I spill more sumptuous
                           than the fruit
                                              I
tempted with, and ask forgiveness.

Press hard your hips to mine,
                  your lips to mine,
and know the way
by memorizing feel of features.
Know me in the dark and light,
                in the cycles
of our hours,
our habits of formation.
Hear me
in our modern.
In
my notes
            slipped into sack lunch
vows I've never uttered.
Keep them close
as you do my body
in between the sheets
         in early morning
segue.
Taste like lasting taffy,
the sweetness of my thoughts,
        watch my fingers spell
                         in lieu of
                             lines
the pretty gathering of sonnets
                  and regard attempts,
however lowly, to call you home.
Eat with me newly granted
knowledge,
and when spent from toil,
return
   to Eden's bed.

The Sunday Whirl

                                         
           

The Language That Is Mine

I want
         to pinpoint this.
              I'm like a crime scene investigator, staring at the wall I've covered in overlapped scraps of  information, facts and theory,
clippings of fragmented
                  feelings..
                     
                       I stand back, tilt my head like the angle viewed is going to make a difference.
                       I'm decoding, analyzing hints,suspecting clues; the infraction:  my love for you.
                                             And I want to
                                             add it up,
compare,
contrast,
           simplify,
                  find a reason why,
                                                                   a motive for my heart's rebellion.
                                                                     
 My mind
shines the light, searching
          to expose, drilling as hours pass but my heart won't speak.
Instead she counts the minutes, waiting to escape, plotting her next move.
            She sees
            something I don't
              or, rather, cares not for rhyme or reason, explanations,
                                     sense.

The writing's black and white but the lines are blurred
                             and what should be is not
                             and what should not be is.

                                                    Desirous cravings, hormonal, temperamental,
                                                                        vision clouded by recent famine, you've intruded
                                                                         into all I thought I knew.
                                                                         I sift through
your indecision, comb uncertainty
                                           and come up in equal knots, a categorical, entangled mess.
                                                                                  The elements
dissent and I protest but
                        oh,
 it's no use.
I can't steady any supposition, proposition, the mad frenzy of imagination trumping meaning.
    Apologize for absence with jagged excuse,
                                                      dim the lights, I'll forget the schism between what I know and what I  want,
flex beneath every unuttered promise,
                                            parse not for missing punctuation,
waste in expectation till
      the truth
settles like dust upon my shoulders, bare.

            It's coming and the wind is blowing,
                                          whispering her own  amour,
                                                                         alleviating all
remaining compositions of unmatched
                     parallels, drawing
                                             genius from my
countenance,
metaphor from proof, manifesting
mystery from my
    sinner's strut.
            Reduction, renewal,
            reaffirming weighty
                             the purpose of the song.

I'll leave
you lambent, basking
            better, not my own.
                   Relish rareness,
                       I like your quiet way.  I won't retract
                                             the language
                                              that is mine
but
    the muse,
             she goes with me, poesy prancing
                                        past your narrations so
                                                        neatly lengthened.

Free will carries far.

       
Wonder Wednesday