Trace the contours of a moment,
read the sighs.
Hold intuitively knowing
not to read too quickly too
often a sigh is just a sigh.
There is no rush with the new sun
to the white heat of winter's
its afterlife breathes in, pulling dust
to the treetops. leaflike
apparitions crest until the cold air catches –
There are many such sighs.
To assume that one would signal some end,
some permission to enjoy
those things that in their lack
we convinced ourselves useless,
is to gamble. we wait
By the time the contours are traced, the moment
Perhaps you are still holding when the tenderness tilts. and after
when you clutch for that strange headstatic
you find no comfort in wringing your lover.
closer. You writhe
here, wishing. If only it were tomorrow! you long knowing
it is too early to remember the static, too late
to be intoxicated any more
under its influence.
as if we live our own seasons
when we love. winter's charm
wears thin around its edges.
wonderfully articulate silences
between two parties
don't make the same
the two seasons of a moment
there is silence. you feel claustrophobic
because you are now so with yourself
that you have forgotten you are still holding
someone that is not yourself. so much
that sweat lines where your bodies meet
and you are both appropriately embarrassed.
you have forgotten about the sigh wondering
if you should fill the silence whose presence
you now question. it is now a presence.
it is shadowed and its shadow weighs.
you are now so yourself
and this is not what you wanted. it is what you wanted
to escape. you want to escape. you wanted to escape
seeing everything's shadow and this is not what you wanted.
you fear you have forgotten the contours. worse you fear
you have mistraced them. the sun has gone down and you fear
you have wasted it. worse you fear there is nothing to keep your eyes
closed. your cold skin tells you the air has not caught its last wind and finally your lover asks you Shall we go inside? and you have forgotten everything's shadow and gotten some glimpse
of bare desire to not be only yourself. you remind yourself not to make a shadow of this as the cold air reminds you where you have held.
you concoct a mythos that is half asleep. probably
you can't see the ghosts from out the window tonight.
still you swear the dust in daylight looks just like leaves.
in your head at least. your lover entertains this and suggests
that the moon is why you are both restless. it waxes night
after night and each time appears full. they insist that
it puts on this show each time the clouds disappear
to make way for spring. this is much more sensible
than your theory of dust apparitions,
but you do not make this known. together you map out:
SPRING comes with the final sigh of winter. after
the final sigh of winter. is the inhalation. is the breathing-in
that draws the thawing trodden leaves from their restingplace
to the bare branches on which they were born.
momentarily. they are ghosts now. they are dust.
this is spring's promise. it is unclear whether this
is a promise to the trees or to the leaves.
SPRING comes with the clearing of the sky. after
the clearing of the sky. is the moon in the cloudless sky.
is signaled by as much. is the performance of a moon
that never wanes but remains steadfast in its duty to carry
distant light to us. seeing as though we are on the crust
of a star ourselves. a star that has lost its light. it doubles
down on its efforts. this is spring's promise. it is quite clear
that this is a promise to us.
despite fear you remember this
and work backwards. it is tomorrow,
but you have forgotten
that you had longed for tomorrow.
you still lie next to your lover.
they are in a restless morning sleep
so you do not move. the shadow
crosses you only as the shadow of
pleasure. the fear punctuating desire.
trying to sully it. you remember it
as passing. in the embrace of the
recurring static you do not move
and so fall back again. through the
squint of a shadow the sun paints
white your eyelids and you wake.
you have never been so aware
of your wrinkled clothing.
your lover is patting yesterday
from goodwill rags now looking
out the window. You were right
about the dust, they say and you
rise to see. your vision fixes
on the falling moon now pale, hanging
there to be seen. Oh, they say,
You've just missed it. What luck!
and you mention the moon at least
makes up for this absence.
but there is no moon and it is midday.
and there is no dust in the still air.
and there is no spring yet.
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