Something Close To
It
In the hum of checker-shirt patterns
we'd drown up the dawn after six grams
and scissor rust brown; after a shatter
of tinder glass in wine bottle fumes,
you'd look to the disdains of oceans and teacup
patterns.
Or were they tempest light's licking flicker
upon the softened petal pieces you kept
as colours upon your cheek, as
hung halos in visions, in beatification,
and communion craft thin as paper
minds?
No, they were the casting of die and
chamber words in echoes of dead letters
and leather of shoe soles in the hallway
when you didn't come with and I couldn't
say.
But, in the ice-water reflections of
Prague hotel mirrors after cracking them
alone, in the hazy trust of afternoon flights,
I was just thinking about falling in love with
you.
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