The aged beast
in this fragile cage, with gasps and small patter
of feet tangled with nerves,
reminds me of this latest degeneracy.
Gift of taste as dried ivory petals
of small flowers that grow by any roadside,
or by the fields left lonesome by loving labour.
Collected with care in worn baskets by small
children,
the buds fall out in torrents into the vats,
crushed one by one by brown, worn hands.
The effort is unceasing, and the sun follows
in the last ounce of moisture, drying.
The sweetness of a kiss,
the touch and scent of a kindness nearing twilight,
and sleep in one’s racing heart assured.
The lovely conversations that embody the hollow
air with vicious color.
This is the urgent vibrancy of your acquaintance,
this is the coolness of the wineglass that contains
our forgetfulness in the quiet of the evening.
Such is your overpowering embrace; what I miss.
This is your face,
symbolizing a fragrance that I cannot bear without.
This is the length of our spirit, swollen. Our
time as one shall pass, blessed by Kismet;
and even at this indecent hour, of warmth
and voice bereft; surely you are most welcome. |