Saturday, March 31, 2012


When I strain your hair, the sand runs black
over my knuckles. You had to go back
to fear sharks again. Or not: I forget.
Either one you might have said, and meant.
We meet with formality, ambassadors of tribes,
and dally like puppies on the patterned floor,
you stand on my feet to walk to the door.

No one less like winter have I ever known:
sunlight booms on the sunwarmed stone,
ants run away to a cooler home,
spattered unspent glasslight springs
back from the corners like blowing foam.
Between your fingers gathered flax
melts and drips like candle wax.

My ledgers are written on sheets of ice
that lie underground, with tick of dice
and the click of tumblers, one by one,
in spaces innocent of any sun,
where the long slow glaciers run:
but there still, when you pull the latch,
is the mystery that our hands still match.


Dale said...

Now with audio, by Seon Joon! I had to hack the audio file into a pretend video, and I shamelessly stole a photograph of her in order to do so. So I've done it and uploaded it -- but I can't actually listen to it till I get home. Shoot.

Dave said...

You can always upload audio to, too.

Dale said...

Ah, thanks!

rbarenblat said...

Oh, I like this so very much! I like the written poem, and I like it even more, aloud. (Also: what a strange and wonderful joy it is to hear Seon Joon reading your words. The internet is magical sometimes.)