Unpolished

dust settled in the closets

every morning, it has hurt

the sunlight, the breeze
a chatter of bruising noise
the opening of the eyes
resentment, and expectation

the smell of today
the stench of yesterday
the faint trace of tomorrow
swallowing seconds

every morning, since he left
it has hurt

his face, half-remembered
his words, half-understood
his goodbyes, half-….
a moment’s consciousness

every morning, it is sorrow
how all things alive
could start and discontinue
how all things wild
could be quite, but not quite

every morning, since he left,
it has stayed

the abandoned side of his bed
his uncleared desk
the unseemly shelves of his books
his unfolded shirts
and his folded glasses

minute, but needle-like
prickling, prickling, prickling
every morning
every mourning

merged

though men be Greek, of ocean eyes
a dashing prince, a brave new knight
of lands and lords, of halted words
of vein-coiled arms, and lustful swords
though men be vain, of polish shoes
a head’s pomade, and midnight truce
of nude delight and dusty crowns
of fools’ device, to his renown

few can claim this fellow’s heart
of thorns and torn, strong of songs
few can pierce the mellow parts
of boy and girl, in one belong

this girl in me

this girl in me blazed bonfire love
fueled by gin and sin, to any man who comes
with ambivalence, she tiptoes so slightly across the hall
dances in the ballroom of paint
to the sound of a fluttering yawl
in the recesses of an alley, this lady sprung
to her feet the flight of any fancied tongue
the bones crack in quiet as the skin melts in peace
colored lips of feigned happiness
while grief of lightyears cease

i was dreaming in the heated sleep

In the rustle of the summer
burnt hands crawl deserted streets
the lapping shore sounds
like laughing more, as I coil in the cool
of the shower’s floor

bright and burning happy days
bristle treetops of neon-light love
dust settles, the lust stays
even when I’ve dried myself
to drive across the muted tales

can you ever be mine in may
when the rain is rarefied
and the little girl squeals
and the little boy steals
sounds of life which ricochet

will you ever be mine in may
or would I never belong
if I can still play with fire
would I still endanger
the rest which used to be long