Holes

The trick is to have just enough
to rouse the raw, and rest the rough,
and hold, and hold, and keep it fed,
lest wake the rested, festered dread
that bends the heavy bottom shelf –
it waits for me to less my health –
and not but fifty feet from here,
the train blares high (and low) in fear
of lost, of poor, of tired souls
who head, who sink, who long for
holes.

Reset

Sometimes we find ourselves encumbered,
sooty with our tribulations,
heavy with our trials,
loomed over by mountains,
and tripped up by molehills;
our hands and knees are grazed and stained,
our faces flecked with dirt…

So burn it all!
Tear off your clothes,
and throw them into fiery pits.
Come roar with me
in flame,
and shame
the hurricane, by comparison.
We’ll blow and torch it from our skin.
We’ll watch it sizzle,
and scorch,
and spin…

At last.
Not a sound but beating hearts.
Not a tree or blade of grass
surrounds-
just us.
Just…
now.
Just blackened earth, and ashy sheets.
Just glowing coals, where once were eyes.
Just red-hot poles, where once were bones.
It…
emanates,
eliminates,
and consummates the act.
We let the winds brush off our skins;
our souls,
revealed,
intact.

We cool,
collect,
breathe in,
accept.

We rise,
redress,
breathe out,

Reset.

I wish I’d cooked you breakfast

I wish I’d cooked you breakfast;
toast and eggs,
layed out in bed,
and spread like butter on pancakes.

I wish I’d bought you flowers;
pink and red,
all preened and stemmed,
on the table for when you come home.

I wish I’d cooked you dinner;
candles and wine,
with plenty of time
to relax, to unwind, to entwine.

But I commit to much more than a day,
to much more than a temporary scene,
for I intend to begin and to end
every day with you kept like a queen.

And every day will be our Valentines,
for as long as the winds kiss the sea.

My Intended Artistry

It’s Sunday, and it’s morning.
You’re sat up at the breakfast bar,
elbows propped, coffee in hand,
legs crossed and bare,
pearly in the breaking light,
a pale, blue button-down does little to cover,
and I too feel exposed with this obvious grin,
not so much staring at you
as bathing,
dabbing at the pinks in your palette,
every bristle coated in your colour,
your magic,
and I ready myself to paint a masterpiece,
but stop short.
Head tilted, stepping back.

I lay my wetted brush,
and soak in primal views.
I could never paint a picture
quite as beautiful as you.