Creases
The creases you make, bold and black stocking feet, on bedsheets
of checkboard and cornflower blue, expanse as the core
of your weights and measures, acts of being and perfumed
trails you took as spring robin companions in ancient
myths to maidens old.
I was a chilly shifting in red shades across the room,
the blackened rift uncoloured in binge-bought sustainment.
The creases of clothing-sun cotton sweetly worn as blood-deep
thorn decorations, movements as complex-common as
summer breezes in a whisper-soft light storm to your
figure carved deep in shape as eternal canyons, rivers' spirit
freely-flown.
I was stealing glance-passes in half-broken echoes, head
heavy as heart from drink and sodden angers.
The creases upon your face, line-worn and buttoned
from the thousand nights you spent smiling, lighting
candle wicks in constrained explosion, the thousand
colours all collapsed to one, the thousands of
loves which bloom bright as new moons each
night beneath this old hamlet's hum;
I was never there, in line for light, in line for warmth,
never there to feel the great cross-man's crease
of your head rested to shoulder.
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