White washed rocking chairs on my front porch.
Your eyes solemnly on mine,
words detached and isolated,
Twirling around my ears for
Someone else's consciousness--
The poem is not my fault.
It's pleading to be written.
Maybe the sun cups our faces,
As we linger in the light
Any inch of cold desire dies on our lips.
Our age is evident through our eyes on the world;
Mine, they saw dreams nightly.
Yours never flash in the dark.
A scratch of Paris in the sunlight?
Splintered white chairs, need a coat of paint,
Maybe you'll paint them next weekend,
Squatting in that strange way you do,
Thighs touching calves,
Sweat dewing on your scalp,
Dried paint on your arm--let me scrub it off.
Tonight, sneak where the moon is.
I will be waiting for you, and so will my words.