twenty-ninth december 2011 ~~~~~

Page Twenty-three

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you drive away

drive gone, away, and gone

with ease, it always looks to me,

with abandon that smells easy.

easy to leave me

again and away.

easy not to see my face ten years,

or two times ten,

or ever.

 

 

easy to drink the wine and more

so that any itching of a tear be drowned.

simple to bludgeon a fetus of love that might stir.

 

 

I, on the other hand,

the different hand,

the holding hand,

cry all the tears, devoid a drop of drink.

without relief, with embryos of death,

a funeral burn, a sear of flesh.

 

 

I, on the riven hand, the holding hand,

say death good-byes and lie awake

and see you in the christmas chair,

another ghost.

 

 

I am made of ghosts.

ghosts are what I breathe and battle,

ghosts I wrap my arms around,

and sing alone to sleep.

 

 

of what are you then made

(you drive away, you drive with ease)

what then do you embrace when darkness falls.

am I a ghost on which you only scowl.

do you once, if woken in the night, cry an

unaborted tear for the face you drove to ground.

 

 

you drive away.

you drive and drive

and later drink

and I am drowned and gone.

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companion piece: streams four

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