Mnemosyne
Men dream into flesh
between long nights,
weaving their breath
into memory,
and believing
that memory
mirrors the world,
as if men's names
were not just water
singing softly
to be heard.
Charles W. Bailey
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Tide
You move
like a winter tide
rolling on a belly
of sand.
Swirling over me,
fondling
the broken shells
of my sighs.
Lick my skin
with salt
and silt
before I
die.
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Confession
Only because we are candles burning at both ends
do I say this word love and fall silent.
The Gulls
You forgot to remove his hands still stroking your breasts in slow circles
like gulls, white bellies tight, as you so naked tried to light a smile.
The Bed
Hollows map your body gone.
My body drinks your fading warmth.
Your ghost is mute. I smoke.
A touch, did I feel a touch of a wrapping thigh?
Silence deepens. I sleep.
Night scraps the window.
The bed is silent.
The Bureaucrats
They are pencils, starting sharp, ground down each day between grey file cabinets,
never knowing the hand that writes with their numb bodies slowly as the hour hand goes by.
Bedlam
Mad eyes, glazed and deep, slice slowly, dissecting each motion.
Lost in phosphorescent seas whose waters we have long since forgotten.
The Salt Stone
I have licked the salt stone.
Run mad as a mushroom cap bobbing in the rapids of a dark stream.
Leapt up the oak ladder to circle the crescent moon.
The wind lies languid in the ivory caves of your morning mouth.
The dawn wraps your shadow turning slowly towards me.
White Rooms
Morning slips into white rooms.
It gently glides a sun smeared hand over hazy figures undulating, speaking silent words.
How and Why
In a former life, I was a fish, eyes wide, gulping meaning.
Now I wait, empty, a pinpoint of breath, a sliver of infinity.
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