ashes, roaches, tweezers, matches
our hands a foot apart
not touching until
you pass the heavy book of
Picasso paintings
tapping the cover telling me
without telling me
the days grow shorter
a candle burns slowly
security in its perch
atop the bottle of cheap wine
(a pair of feline eyes stare
through the glass top sharing
perfect secrets knowing what is real)
"who believes in love anymore?" you
say, a provocation? an invitation?
"maybe," i reply, "maybe!"
if it is you
who is of
love and secrets perfected by scars
but!
you feel untouchable heavier than
this table carrying
questions that burn, that smoke
that penetrate us, but
why?
i'm alive enough to know i'm
near you
not near enough to you to
know i'm alive
douglas brent smith
No comments:
Post a Comment