David, a portrait

Fate has nothing to do with his face
though I inspect it just the same,
as though I could read it's edges,
unfold his tongue, sprouting as it is from the ledges
of his lips. He tries to forget,
stuffing his hands into his pockets,

I can see the indent of his cell in his pockets,
feel the look changing on his face
before it forms, before I tell myself to forget
because change is hardly the same
gilded marble ledges
I once stretched across, all in the hopes of uncovering lost edges

of mismatched meandering thought; O these edges!
Or the shape of his hands deeper still in his pockets.
these discourses are hardly statements, merely ledges
for our words to plummet from, yet I can't help but touch his face,
feel the cold newer still current of all things the same
hoping to waylay the knot of my body and forget,

But I can't forget,
neither the corner of the table top, or his shirtsleeves crisp edges
all things unbearable, all things the same.
I move my hands across him, his hands stay in his pockets
kiss the bent leather of his chin, turning, his face
no longer near enough to keep our cheeks on the ledges

of each other, we collapse, these ledges
deforming, defrocked, steeped in how to forget
the shapes that my face
break into when he leaves, my stony edges
cemented in displacement like his pockets
pulled down slightly from the weight of his writs, and once again it is all the same.

Perhaps pain is all the same,
and we frolic to it, like ledges
hardly sturdy, in emulation of his hands reaching up from pockets
akin to forget
the salty, watery plumes of the edges
of his fingertips when they find my face;

the motion is the same, we cannot forget.
Standing as we are atop ledges, praying that the edges
of night might leap from warm pockets, to the aching plains of my face.


A Sestina.