Alternate line cuts to the previous poem:

The continent composed of all the countries you have been in
without me is enormous. In it is a constant European summer,
light jacket weather, scattered rainshowers. The flowers, I do
not have the names for them, but they bend their heads to be
blessed, regardless. The country composed of the cities I’m in,
without you, is a holy country, where it is always morning and
the coffee scalding. In the streets, the people fan their hands
in the heat, examining the sky, they wonder when it will rain.

(Previously: without.)

WTFSYNMLYRNR:

The continent composed of all the countries you have been in without me is enormous. In it is a constant European summer, light jacket weather, scattered rainshowers. The flowers, I do not have the names for them, but they bend their heads to be blessed, regardless. The country composed of the cities I’m in, without you, is a holy country, where it is always morning and the coffee scalding. In the streets, the people fan their hands in the heat, examining the sky, they wonder when it will rain.

WFYMSWDNRNTK:

Flipping a coin not for its verdict,
but to borrow its resolve

to choose a side and remain on it.
But for now everything is up in the air.

Yet you make love,
not decisions.

The coin hangs between us.
Won’t you tell me what you want?

WLWPBPNLFYFR:

Sink

Washing the dishes because I want to eat.
The rest I wash because I want to be neat.
You would scoff at the rhyme, I think, but
you have been gone so long. Longer than
these dishes have been in the sink, I think.
In this one, there was fruit, in that one,
pink meat. I wash the sugar bowl as well,
no need for it now that you have been gone
so long and I take my coffee black, I think.
So long, I said to you, and you turned to me
with a face full of glass. Why are the lines in
your poems suddenly so long, you asked;
so long, I said again, as the glass slips out of
my soapy hands and clinks down through the
water toward the bottom of the sink. No longer
hungry, I dry my hands. I think.

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TWSPDWMNTM:

The End of the World

has been written about elsewhere and before,
possibly by myself, bleak and heavy with
imagined desires. Now that I’ve shrugged off
that metal mantle called the fear of time,
the sad youth’s companion, the end of the world
appears not as apocalypse, nor devastation,
not big glow, big fire, but rather, punctuation,
a gasp in the symphony sung by a choir
no one among us can keep time to alone.

FYGPSHTMTYW:

Unconsummation

Something about moderating one’s desires. Or questioning them.
Do I love you, for example, and are you your body?
You are in your body, and you are not in mine.

Aristophanes’ theory that every human is only half of what it once was.

There are many measures of eternity. In one, a bird flies
once every one thousand years to sharpen its beak on a cliff
halfway across the world. When the cliff is worn away,
that is the beginning of an eternity. The measures of eternity
are also measures of distance.

Tristan laying down beside the naked sword he laid down beside Iseult.

Sartre’s example of an infant plunging its hands
into a jar of honey, the crisis of contact,
the necessary dissolution of one’s self
upon touching the beloved world.

Alkibiades wrapped in Socrates’ cloak embracing Socrates’ wrapped in Alkibiades’ cloak.

The hotel room that exists for us both
but only in our minds, similar but not the same one,
differing only in the minute details: the fruit in the bowl,
the shape of the lamp shade, maybe the quality of the light.

Different ways to sleep beside but never with.

You once told me I had sticky hands. I can’t help
that what I want is to grasp.

IWWDWYDTM:

The Kiss

The ceremony of greeting and goodbye was held
delicately between them, balanced on their shoulders.
Their faces tilting as if closed-eyed considering
one another. Her hand at the nape of his neck,
holding the kiss together. They are not thinking of the kiss;
it is happening undemanded, entirely without them.
She is thinking silently about open doors. A misplaced key.
When one finds a key, one also discovers the absence
of a lock. The presence of treasure. In his head,
he is humming a song. He was not sure she would know it,
yet here she goes, face uplifted, somehow singing along.

I think I have returned. Hello.

Tagged ,

MLSTFPWWDMY:

“How are you? I remember scrutinizing your bookshelves
but not if you had very short, bitten fingernails.”

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IWFTFTPLTLW:

An ekphrasis, Finish What You Started, on the Philippine Free Press Online.

Tagged , ,

FTTFYBSMBL:

Be mountains, be house
Have love, be mouse
A little labor, a found forgetting
We will have all the silly love that we look for

Cut-up poem using the text from my lover’s tattoos. Including the one he’s still planning.