Friday, January 16, 2009

I tremble electric

I care not for the playground nature of your eyes. But I am comfortable with your arms on my swelling stomach, you are mostly silent and when you sleep you twitch your arms, hot bricks beneath us. I am your last year encased in flesh, split ends with human eyes looking out through nothing. Color, grab a hold of me again; take me down into your early mornings and coffee'd brunches with folded fabric napkins and star colored plates. I belong there in the pinks. Wake up sweetly. Pink hands, dry corners. But I thought the morning had come, unhinged in the doorjamb, it is erased and I'll take to the grave just the way it feels now. Let go by your eyes that keep getting lost in beds. Please give me that when you wake up lonely. Let me into your waters, I want not these harden goods. 

1 comment:

Dunbar2012 said...

beth,

yet again, you stream the cosmic grief through your fingertips.
These poems should be bound.
proper words like these to be inked and pressed into old paper by some
oily, ancient machine.

you are a whole different century.