Monday, May 22, 2006

not to touch
for Christain who made me beautiful

I read Neruda with you
in a dream that was
worthy of your untamed mouth,
your heavy eyes, that
hold the deep night's velvet;
your roughened hands, impossible
not to touch

I woke, with you
my eyelids,
draped by May’s first dew, then
opened to cold solitude
a emptiness caressed
by dawn’s orange fingers
your touch fleeing on chaste butterfly wings
I become crumpled,
a weary memory
steeped in bleeding rainbows
imbued with my fear

my love, a transparent child
cries soft round tears
that float up and leave my
tender kisses in the
pure whiteness of clouds

I disappear
on this blank page
shattering in silence.


glenda said...

My Gawd, this is good, I could feel the emotion of this. My dreams are sometimes like this, so real, then I wake up and feel like the other dreamplace was the real place. The other emotion was the real emotion, particularly true for loss.

Kathleen Callon said...

You write so well. This poem is like a short story that's alive and that leads and and jerks your emotions and wonder around. Blake is still my favorite poet, but you are officially second on my all time best list.

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