This life and
This love, they are so much more than
Dying, listless
asleep in wine, in malbec
and cabernet, in
whiskey smoke and beer,
Dying for a loving touch that feels
like white sand in between
your toes or a cool
blanket in summer.
It's more than fighting
to stay awake or
to sleep or
to get enough fiber.
It's more than you hearing words
in crowded spaces
those words that call for
great expanses, fields and
copses of birch and pine, you
who can barely listen above the din
and miasma, whose eyes are
dimly lit by neon and cathode-ray
and LCD, deserve only the auditorium
of a grand wilderness, an endless jungle.
I too, cannot fully watch the flickers in your smile or the nuances of your laugh when all the diesel traffic
roaring by and every chainlink
fence stands between us,
~~~~~
A boat roars by, the brown water gets murky and
churns on our feet
river-glass sparkles in the waves
and white pelicans
soar far from home over the river.
We stand laughing, eyes
squinting in bright laughter, in the
burning sun.
There's more to life
in this, in this
shining cloudless day,
in mirthful folly and joy,
there's more to love in our
little rounded toenails
crinkling in the mud.
And I'll hear
your voice as if in a dream, vivid
and clear, hearing it as if for the first time
but with an added sense of deja vu.
And I can speak to you with no hoarse
choking throat, no smoke or
nebulae to cloud it, and
we can find what more there
is, and what sun
feels like on our skin.
