I sat down to write
a poem without a point,
but in this, too, failed.
Look Up, My Love: We Are A Symphony
I.
I possess
the audacious
belief
that
mine is a
story
lain out
in chapters.
I like to think it
an interesting
story
in its own
right,
and perhaps
it does
indeed
shimmer
out beyond
these pages
which are
my
inhabitance.
But
when I
first met you,
it was not
our first
meeting.
We first met
already
partway through
our stories,
and I will be
brave enough
to learn my origins
in our
recapitulation.
I recognize
in your
existence
the voice
of my own
author,
and each
upcurl
of his pen
in you
stirs my own
suspense.
I choose
to believe
that we are
each of us
purposefully
driven apart
so that our
eventual joining
will mean
something greater.
II.
I hear you
effortlessly
trilling
my own soul’s
melody,
and I dare not
allow
my down-bow
to cease.
My eyes watch
as conductor’s hands
curl vapors
of all colors,
but my ears
belong
to you;
(And who
can explain
how artful
harmonies
interplay?)
Our interval
sometime
may grow,
and
I strain
against
the staff
in groaning string:
Our suffering
is of an
exquisite
hue:
fleurs sauvages
lain across
this score
in open
nakedness
to still breath;
Each
appoggiatura
begs to be
the device
by which
our reuniting
resolves.
III.
You are this
endlessly
fragile
thing
whose ictus
I have learned
to cushion
while soaring
tangent
to your
laughing
curves—
I do not
steer,
I lean.
My love,
we pirouette
and you pass
the light
to me
and there is
finally
that glorious,
eternal,
dual possession
of such
silver-stranded
melody
as we
neither
of us
have dared
to dream.
After all this,
pen lifts,
and we
at last
d_i__s___s____o_____l______v_______e.
Which “I” are you?
Which “I” are you?
I am me,
but that’s not saying
much.
Darkness scores the
prickling bark from my shoulders
and stars
slough off
my bristling
breaths:
I can write a masterpiece
or nothing at all,
and I choose
nothing at all.
There,
that’s better.
I is all I’ve got;
Which “I” are you?
a love letter to one who is far away
If I were there
next to you,
I suppose
I would not
say anything,
but,
since I am not,
allow me
to tell you
that
I notice
when you
alter
your smile—
I admit
I prefer it
in its original form:
askew and bookended
by laughter
at one irreverent thing
or another.
I want you to know
that you are worth
all flowers
(and
I have only just
begun to discover
what that means).
I know that this is not the same
as a lovesong,
but that is only because
you cannot hear me
sing it.
You are familiar,
I think,
with the way a tree
might be
moved
without
being moved;
thusly does time
pass
with you
to
without you
(waves crash on
themselves
and only we
notice).
I cannot–
so removed–
offer you a flower,
so, instead,
I bring to you
all flowers
and lay them
naked
at your
askew
smile,
which I love
so
well.
A day at a time is relative
I am one
whose
forgiveness
eyes
frostily
crack
the newborn
skies,
and
within my heartbroken
well
of retention,
I know
the stars
by names
of my own
invention,
and their light
overgrown
learned to
outshine
my own.
Yes,
I am one
over whom
trees of yesterday
do loom
and sing
their melodies,
and
the broken,
clinging
leaves,
left to die,
reach closer
to heaven
than do I;
I am one
who
believes that
tomorrow
is always
painfully
far away,
but,
be that as it may,
it is still
always closer
than this
looming
yesterday.
A Haiku for the End of the World
If someone loves you,
keep listening. Who’s ever
said just what they meant?