Friday, May 28, 2010


i wish i had one night to memorize you
to seal you in thoughtful celluloid
and then i could play you over and over
parts of you
a knuckle
a rough elbow
a line that crosses your throat
the rib beneath your heart
one shin taught with a bruise
the sliding of your skin over the bones of your left hand
a collarbone lifted and then lowered with your breath
as a shoulder blade appears like a shark’s tail
on the surface
and then dives below the water of your back

and what of the sound of you?
the timbre of your words
would live in that place where my ears save
things for later
so when certain nights come without fireflies or moon
or bells or breezes
i could rummage around for your voice in my head

oh far flung friend—
i would record you
like a new route home
with only one flickering headlight to lead the way
leaving a ruby trail of brake lights
for you to inspect somewhere in the forest

i could bury the one faded tintype
that crackles behind my brow
the one that was made when you were a boy
it still emits, but the signal is so weak now
delicate -- intolerant of my fingertips touch

years ahead and sighted and counted carefully
like a jetty that walks to the tideline
one rock, two . . .
til we drink the green of the waters
taste the salt of the air
grasp the blue at night
and roll away
back and remembered.

for the muse, may 28, '10

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