words & pictures
Got the clouds on a string (or do they have me) I don’t know why or where they’re going – what they so burdened dream in gathering swell, in trailing dissolution thin hand raised against the sun where they end and I begin a perturbation on the face in the disavowal of their exhalations gone repletely smoothly only that in the fleet urgence of our conspiracy their hesitant pull so easily lifts
I remade the chair From a few broad rails The curtain’s billow and drape From the goose-down shiver Of winter’s long-drawn exhalation The iron bed, stalwart In curlicues and abandoned heaps That you, in your cool insistence Preferred neatly folded I was never like that –fool You admonish with the laughter of the imagined dead In that cloud-drift adumbration Still Could not remake the stillness of your face
