Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Poetry Year August 6th

We stood alone on crest of sand ridden hill,
in this place that is so much mine as would that I could own it.
That peculiar taste of light of morning,
as it crowds through clouds herded on low horizon.
We talked, truly, this, and nothing more.

I know you think him rival to your affections,
that this walk an insult to fidelity.
I can hear you turn your back on me,
even over the phone.

I can feel the steam flow off your back,
even though you are far away.

Far away but under the same moon,
that is bloated as it rises through the moss clad trees,
far away but under the same moon,
as it bleeds out in me.
far away, far away in word and affection,
the sharpness of your tone cuts through me
through the front of my knees,
it makes me grow weak with fear.

I miss you so.

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