Poem: Untitled

already beckoning, the hands that clutch
coat tails and wedding veils to no avail
know ceaseless reckoning, wrecked to the touch;

the sharp edge splintering pierces thumbnails
through candywrapper trails crinkling patience
into the distant ocean winds. no sales

nor service please them, and no donations
reason how you may profit from silent
pause toward the highest bid. declarations

like these impede your independent bent
and foment a resentment of the hue
they wish for you: they've blown out candles meant

for you. i know. and i was tempted too,
grazed by the razors of your legs and held
by symphony doors: ushers in their suits

and bow-ties pinning me to the walls meld
into the chamber music of your voice.
i have no choice. and if i had, compelled

to choose, i would choose you. i do. the moist
and drizzling aftershock of lovelorn storms
strikes twice on the same plain to scatter boys

throughout the fissuring rays' swarm from warm
and fragile panic, frozen on the ice,
on sheets of molten snow, layered and worn

and walking on the water. it's so nice
to hide inside delight, from the cold light
of inattentive stars, from the chill cries

of slaves to one's own scars, from parasites
and weaving wills, from crashing motorcars
and spinning wheels: please tell me it's all right.

that night, you froze the ocean. and time sparse,
i froze that too. to be with you. and so
we knew: better than blind dates, singles bars,

and shopping carts, our wills and wants could slow
the spinning of the skies and burning worlds
until we'd understand our time to go.

already beckoning, i hate the hands that pulled
us far apart, across the ocean sheet
once bridged in snow. but now, woman, the coast

confines me. come find me, and be complete:
and i'll be waiting where our waters meet.