Wednesday, March 23, 2016

the distance which lies between the branches


the distance which lies between the branches


with furrows on my face
I've put on my mourning apron.
there is an empty bench
where I sit and die a little
in front of the house.
people walk by.
I don't explain anything to you.
a different death
in the middle of the street.




I leaf through the obituaries
and the clouds

you look at me with fear,
(my heart starts to slide down
the gentle slope of your black hair.)


it rained because I needed it to rain,
and because you wanted
you gaze at me through the mirror.
night came because I wanted it to come.
and I looked into your eyes,
and I kissed your childlike hands,
and prepared your clothes, remember?
but you were afraid.
a sullen and grim fear.
a fear of watches.
remember, it’s all true.




I've not given up on either love or wound.




we never measure the distance
which lies between the branches of the blooming dragon tree
or remove dirt,
or irrigate the cornfields,
or paint windows,
or collect water in transparent buckets.
the cold never fills the well
with green blackberry.
your mouth never
leaves the taste of almonds
on my lips.

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