A sprite bird burgles the morning, every morning, catching the memories lain by night as if its every sense were contingent on obliterating them. I resent the birds, in halved moments. Mostly, I think of them as I would Tang: good in space; less than appealing when tasted.
When the memory- and the drink-sodden weight of my lids are by the heft of both hoisted-- I first curse those birds, and then know gratitude for their having the gall to be; and by being, be by me. Loons come to mind.
A mid-week morning hits me straight in the face. Then, without censuring itself, and mounds of teeth-grinding angst born, right there and then and all the time, loving her and hating unctuous familiarities, something drives something in me as deep as the need to define "something", and it is this, I with a grin guess:
If, Sweetheart, I ever saw a smile as bountiful as yours in how it directs the light to where it needs to be, I'd be more than a little surprised. Irascible qualms die in its cause; and if there is a half-hearted step between us, I assure you that it is mine, not yours; you have never been, never can, never will, anything but the very force of this world; and for you, only, with a hint of regret and some pride and more hope,
serviam.
No comments:
Post a Comment