aftersense
That wild weather out there
between the wet glass and the wet sky
is meant to resemble
the terrible sound of
a body, suddenly fluid
against the frozen walkway
at the base
of an evil-eyed tower
where you could not live
at all.
Gladly tamed,
beyond breath and oblivion,
a wild creature brought home from that damp in-between
to carry the mission of
ultimate bliss and hereness,
yet failed to protect
the delicate side
of destiny,
too savage to invent
a starrier night.
With no sunny forecasts,
strangled by the slender streams
filling the rift in the
impossible heartbeat,
to hesitate
on the slippery edge of desperation,
you can forgive even that
and call it murder if
there is no longer such word
as love.
The dry side of the window
is paradisiacally safe,
to suppress watery desires
in view of
an apparent indifference
on the other side.
But nobody,
not even the rain,
will persuade us
to keep falling apart.
2012
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