her

I tell myself that I do not want her—to know her, to feel her, to be near to her.

But how can I make myself believe?

What can silence the dreaming of a lonely heart?

What driving force or sweeping song would sediment those unsolicited contrivations?

How many times do I have to let go of her before it lets go of me?

For love’s sake I am a worm and not a man.

No figure graces my eyes but the grace of longing,

No kiss touches these lips but the hollow peck of death.

Her children are as mine, until now still silent and uninvited in this world of darkness.

For love’s sake I am a well of shimmering lights awaiting the bravest bucket.

I drop my thoughts to the floor, but they touch me yet the more.

I spin upon my sill until the eve is filld with words upon words within my bill,

And here I sit wondering yet again why my heart is so stubborn for her.

He imagines petulance and protrudes either beneficence or pestilence.

And here at this hour, where I might wisely embrace somniference,

Within my fingers I find again the pen which bleeds for her:

Does he die for her? Yes, and dies again—page upon page of black strokes.

Until my head collapses into its couch enraptured, I at last find the final line…

And the apparition bows politely in silence,

Having no words with which to congratulate my brilliance,

And no courage or pity with which to express to me its utter futility.  

March 28, 2018