Like a flip book turned too fast,
I saw you standing under
The blood stained moon
And the open window
Dressed in blue and
Dressed in green and
Waving hello and goodbye.
Like eternity and yesterday
Braided together into
A sturdy rope which you
Hold slack in one hand
And with the other grasp
At my reaching hand
As it pulls away.

I understand that
It is easy to be quick,
And it is tough to be slow.

My heart may be always full,

But it is changing shape;

Sometimes small

Like the mustard seed

Forgotten in the planting,

With little or no room to fill.

Sometimes it is like a whale,

Large-mouthed and gulping down

On every little thing

That it floats near.

 

I needed time to forget you.
I took a walk across the Thames,
Spilled some beer in Edinburgh,
And bought poetry from a Cathedral.

I guided my heart through a free fall,
Pondered thoughts til they were thorough,
Made a handful of new friends,
And called my fresh feelings true.

See what you have done to me?
I’m skipping like a madman
Between underground stations
And picking up smiles like spare change.

I stopped counting nights, only days,
Started up the engine of imagination,
And jungled around like Tarzan.
See what you have made of me?

I am constantly inconstant,

Like a day that witnesses

Every season in its 24 hour breath.

My nerves are fire on the inside

Yet cool to the touch, like a fire

Trapped in a fireplace, behind thick bricks.

I am never aware of what I will be

Until my eyes shut tight on their own,

And I see what sits beneath,

Like digging for gold

And finding a flooding river

Which pours out from the crack.

A church in town with the windows down

Where men punch out their every doubt

And writhe upon the floor or near the door

With posters for afternoon prayer

And pictures of the penitent fair.

I stood inside, filled with awe and pride

For something I had left in moments too bereft

To feel the presence or the present,

The one I’m told is quite unearned

And does not fail however we’ve turned.

I cannot but think I’m past the brink,

Wearing the robes of vice’s throne.

I’ve painted portraits with the ink of my forfeits

And happily forgotten time,

And finally forgiven mine.

We sing our songs from the back of our teeth

In underground bars and across the street

With nothing but a glittering smile,

A borrowed guitar, and a very short while.

In English and French, maybe Mandarin,

We say the same thing, again and again.

Something is lost or something is gained.

The both of these cause us a special pain.

Whether or not we start in the wrong key,

Or burping out the words after some drinks,

We sing our own and those of other men

Who may have found a better way to send

Their souls through hand and to the other ear,

No longer worried, having beaten back fear.

I sing my songs to prove they’re worth hearing

To everyone listening, but mostly to me.

My eyes are tired from what I’ve seen,

What I’ve witnessed pass as if it was

Pulled like the landscape through train windows.

Unrelenting, industrious, and impossibly fast.

I’ll fall asleep just long enough to slip through

The station in your town, and wake up from

A fever dream where I count to ten on

The surface of the sun, blubbering in the heat.

You were there, with a bouquet of plastic

Flowers and an armful of umbrellas,

Cursing the wind and the days that we’ve lost.

I would compare her to the amber waving high.
I would say her smile is as light as rain,
Or her hair as soft as sea foam,
But she would say she is not stick and bone,
Her teeth found their straightness through some pain,
And her hairline is not at all right.

I would ask for an ounce of her joy,
Or a chance to bottle her laughter.
I would ask for a single day alone,
But she would say she is not the one,
That joy does not keep fresh in the after,
And that I am a foolish, romantic boy.

Dropping notes into the Thames,
The cellist dips his bow
With the sway of a dead man’s song
While the sun dips its glow.

His hands will rise with the tide
and smooth out their waves
While I attempt to take stock —
To smooth out my day.

Should I walk to the wide river

Under dozing bridges and laden

With boats peculiarly named?

Should I tear myself away

From this comfortable window seat

Where the reading is quiet and kind?

Should I jump, full force into society

Where shoulders and voices bump

Like stones thrown across the room?

Should I bring her flowers from

The Queen’s own garden, filling

The space with proper waves and nobility?

Should I spend my last few pounds

On bread to eat or books to eat,

Considering the importance of nourishment?

Should I set out to fall in love

With another dozen girls as we

Pretend that no such thing exists?

Should I be me or merely seen?