The Sound of Light on Paper

I will send you Poetry's phantom carriage
to transport you
into yesterday's pleasures
into night with its black glass
and chromium beauty
the city's silks of light and mist
its fur of snow and sex

and I will sit contemplating
the melancholy of chimneys
like an old ghost
waiting for a wayfarer's memory
to bring you back to my pages
my lips


my shadow is often white
mirroring the soul of the snow
that breathes out of your deepest silence
forcing me
to jump off the far edge of dusk
into the black hole of rooftops
covered in the frost of your kisses

what happens inside you
when I mentally lift your skirt
and disappear
into the lost streets of your body?

right now
I can hear the mist settling
on the flowers that are your sighs


once I touched you
sheened in mercury
your skin slipping away from me
to the far side of a distant orbit
those thighs like polar moonlight
leaving my hands
crying out
as they froze and shattered
into a million pieces
of the irretrievable moment
before you dropped out of sight
into your dreams
of an unknown Earth
and the future of all my poetry


I have no recourse
in these times of utterness
but to bind your wrists and ankles
to the nakedness of cold hard type
and have you over and over
as if you were
the moth of all dreams
opening and closing
in erotic splendor
like the lost wings of childhood


each day the abyss between us widens
by an immeasurable extravagance
that will never be recovered or redeemed
by any word or deed
closer to death than we know -
nothing seperates us now from nothingness-
1 can only be consoled
by this vertiginous swooning
you create inside me, as I sink
quickly down
the infinite funnel cloud of your absence


I wish you would swallow me
until I ceased to be
then exhale me like existential smoke
drifting from city windows
into rain and traffic

I wish you would open me
and tear out all my pages till
only a chronic blankness remained
that poet's paradise
where I could be your private incantation
always somewhere
between your tonguetip
and the dead language of your lips

I wish you would just
grind me
into nothingness


to unearth you
in a black tendril of words

aching to get off the page
into the abyss of things

to grasp you
in a hand of dead weeds

along the rails
in ravines of sepia

alphabets dissolving
into silver and gold

sky and willow a single solitude
an entity of dust, the archaic dove of sex

pressing you from behind
with the velvet of lost snow


you are a gown of silver light
     the shadow of a myth
the hovering particulates
       of trashed poems
           the noise of unending ache
like stockings over cold steel
     this ink of you
         in a collapsed heap of paraphrases


buried in that
     blue dust of you
       I throw myself

from mote to mote
    and land on an
      eyelash: your name,

at least, forever on
     my tongue, however far
        from your morning's bed:

I have this one, gemlike
    moment, precious,
       like your skin,

where the dead moth
     of my image sinks
        into your waxen silences,

swallowed by the absoluteness
      of your un-
        tasted kisses.


the chalk and violet of,satin hillsides:

     vodka of moonlight:

       delirium of eyelids:

I hold on to her breath

    in the silent void between

      nape and tailbone

my utterances consumed

    by the snow of her

     the porcelain sex at the edge

of her being: the fantasy of my hands
     on her shoulders of crystal
       her hips of white jade


in this drowning dusk
    of pearls and linen:
       how the years
narrow to this harrowing:

                           a single weed
                           a sparrow's eye

a thread of hair
   cut from the world: and,
                            a shot glass
                            behind curtains
                            of rain

and all the words between
     rifts: where only reflections
         of night stay:
                            pine, ice, whiteness
                            the day's glaze:

a crystal pear
the sound of light
on paper

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