I grew heavy with breath beneath the valance of her breast,
Heavy and wide, unburdened of a shore I became full.
On a dead and dying July foul and coarse
The distant dissonance of a young moon mixed
With puerile thoughts upon the ménage of soft hands,
The coarse coat of her furless fur distends,
And land is land, died and dying land…
Over how many tables did our conversation grow stale?
Upon mendacious eyes and unbalanced hallways
As unheard footsteps littered clothes littered with riposte
To turn and to ask if only you would have
As I sat and watched drywall mold
Times when silence was not enough
When this autumn oak held together an uniformed frown
And the children of now are awake in a dream
I would never want to be awake in…
Days of wonder to wonder unafraid of the morning
As fall tongues fall and meet over flakes of gold and cream
And dust is just an idea of a morning, afternoon, or night
Burdened by the weight of it are we not infallible
Under silk sheets have we not as thighs met hands
And hands met chests said and spared of disparity
Under the weather of a day which unwithered hours hung
As sepals in bloom waiting to be plucked
And I knew not of disappointment but made the appointment
To say for once it might have left
Yet disappoint is salient and even under lovelier days will it bloom.
-G.
