Sunday, November 25, 2007



No, you never asked for this
cyclopean storm of single entendre valentines,
never filled out an online form
or faux-casually mentioned
to your Nereid neighbor
the slot machine odds of your deepest
desire. No, you never
requested assistance of the half-
literate pool boy Pablo
with his arms whisking leaves from the dead
end mirror of the water
and waited for him
in the shadow of lust,
in frail frill. In a cloud,
you thought, in a cloud
and in a cloud, forever and ever,
Amen. No. Men
who are paid to think
in obscurity, whom I envy
without quite knowing it,
say clouds might feel
spongy, almost walkable, a crème
of slow descent. You
never thought of me
in my obscurity
beneath these theoretical clouds
which say rain. Which say
you can never escape
a single thing. But
here I am, with flowers, poems,
darling failures aplenty,
daring your sense
of misguided charm
to kick in, the thousand strange
verbs rustling
in my mouth
like scabby autumn. No,
I never asked
for this weather,
this brine-happy sky,
but in it I go. This nervy instant. This.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Gorgeous, Paul.