02 05 2008

If I cut my hair
And between the
Fingers, pinch the line
Hoping it reaches
Far away into
The ancient past,
Running down the
Orange and red
Silk dress edge,
And the marble
Shudders and what
Was resolved, does
Not fall, it yields
And warms like
The morning light
Of melted butter.
With each plea and
Promise, with each
Wish for words to
Give love its confidence,
Like a reel skipping
along
Leaving nothing permanent
On a blankened wall.
With each month or
Cloud that passed in
Distraction, the shelves
Unburdened, a chance
An interlude, lacy minutes
Could have come
And gone, the melting
Glass taking in
The air, inspiring,
a cooling curve
That rings then
With passion

RLB