Monday, June 16, 2014

Degrees of Separation

If a heart lifts to the sky, and it does,
then what recoils? What do you recall?
the lipstick your four-year-old friend
insisted that you wear, the red cowgirl bandana
left on the floor because you cannot bend so far:

say this, or the swollen toes, the knees
red in their shallow dishes,
the neighbors' worry at
inadvertent trumpetings of pain
when you roll over in your sleep?

When I walk at night, pursued
by the close reasoning of the Moon,
how will I purge these from my thought:
the messages of fear and want,
letters delivered to me in the hope

that I might be the third or fourth or even fifth
degree of separation? I am not, I am not:
I am the seventh, eighth, ninth. I am
the dead-letter office of desire. Nothing
that comes to me

is going any farther.


ntexas99 said...

really beautiful, dale

Zhoen said...

Everything comes to me.

Anonymous said...

in the third place

down here with the witch
and the chickenshit there's
no need to reach;
just a cool, surging desire
to skim down the hedges
at night
undressed by the moon
outliving the notches
of hurt carved
by the curve of a cheekbone
the readiness of a laugh
a wanton mind
surfing the field rims
sending up the crows
in last-minute flight
flying after loping foxes
turning at the springs
to touch the river-dragon's back
and home, the journey made,
the song broken
the law unfurled.

Dale said...