Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

foregone

Posted on | November 10, 2009 | Comments Off

i keep wondering these days,
about things i know i should not,
sometimes it is painful even,
not knowing-
or not understanding.

perhaps i should have spoken to you more,
or more often,
there is so much i could say,
(or maybe, not so much really?)
i keep wondering-
what comes in, when you go out the door?

i stand, in a house of mirrors,
every morning, staring in cold glass,
at your image in a trickery of light,
which dissolves on touch-
and melts all around me-
as if there is a garden of words,
forming around me- leading
me down spiral paths, to a set of
chiaroscuro patterns in a bower of imagination,
i look for you, in sudden moon-shadows,
and stumble on my own identity.

i wake up.

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