March 30, 2005

ours, fallen

We can be anything
but us.
Always masking flowers with mirrors
hardened from clenched fingers
soiled in whispered songs.
And the leaves fall
two by two.
Only them in the beat
of held hands
and locked eyes -
only them,
for the petals suspend themsleves
in the air
sick and disgusted.
They refuse to speak
of scented beds
or of scented windows
or scented doors
or scented pillows
waxed in sweet sweat.
So I turned to the paired little carpets
in blazing greens
landing in your closed palms.
They wilt in browns
in dead yellows
in sudden sudden death.
There is nothing else I can turn to now.
Not even you.
Not even I.

1 comment:

veraLeigh said...

read more poems