Watching Movies Indoors
We sat reflected in the soft quarter-light,
computer screen glow of BBC dramas,
hand folded together, legs crunch-crossed,
lest we even a bit touch, deep gulf
of plush seating, unsightly floral pattern.
You were unmapped, twisted as thrashing English
rose thistles about garden gate's cut wood,
in nervy poise waiting for the hour's end;
still, bright as a Niagara's sunset,
nostalgia's haze about your smile.
Studying the light lines cast upon you,
it seemed a work on oil canvas, brightly
warm, hearth's glow of beating embers,
tick-tocking as the pulse quickened;
I could have been tricked to your same thought,
but who am I to say.
Clashing dust storm pitch of two coming about
in tempest's jug, swirling in rock river
current, dashing all cuts leftward and right,
forming wrappings close until neither was distinct.
They began so different, one with the
sloshing sud of brewer's pump and distiller's
water, the other simple invitations, two
flights of stairs up to a room, little words.
At once I could see the end, same way each time,
flicker of computer screens, mouth sodden-soak
with unheard phrases, love poems and vulgarities,
blurring close, crossing sweat and strong whiskey.
Clocks crept on from a witching hour,
still I wished a closer hand to hold.
Another Way of Saying
Brown floor tiles and shows, the same no matter
the country name, the manner of speaking,
the contrasted clash of sky and soil,
any other thing you could think of;
it is a constant.
Window glass casts cold judgments ever the
dreary, a few angle's degree difference
depending on which pillow the place makes
at day's end, sunset's stripes fall in patterns;
it is never that bright.
I'd always find the fastest way to be
lonely as ever, boards and barricades
to keep apart, itchy triggers in evening
places, the matter of flag incoherent;
it is a fearful thing.