The Layers
(“My beloved is mine and I am his, he pastures his
flock among the lilies.” Song of Songs 2:16)
The first layer of
attention, the lightness of feathers,
the breath of linen, never left for over the briefest season when
I moved apart the leaves to find another pathway lined
with false proposals. Inclined to believe what I see,
I sought them for the loneliest era; time undefined by
the finite or eternity.
the breath of linen, never left for over the briefest season when
I moved apart the leaves to find another pathway lined
with false proposals. Inclined to believe what I see,
I sought them for the loneliest era; time undefined by
the finite or eternity.
I cannot be specific
about what layer was next, or how many,
or what order they came; though I do know the last two as I’ve
grown into a new set of clothes that feel like comfortable hand
me
downs.
or what order they came; though I do know the last two as I’ve
grown into a new set of clothes that feel like comfortable hand
me
downs.
Love was never
questioned, no seriously; the first layers were
dance and six-strings, never weary of late nights, long walks,
unending talks of what we thought might be heaven to day,
or might be gone tomorrow. Unexamined, our love bounced
like wagon wheels unsprung. We were nearly nomads,
finding gifts between concrete cracks and below rocks
settled in mud
after the rain.
We acknowledged hell with a mere glance, little thinking
love might leave us wordless about eternal agony.
dance and six-strings, never weary of late nights, long walks,
unending talks of what we thought might be heaven to day,
or might be gone tomorrow. Unexamined, our love bounced
like wagon wheels unsprung. We were nearly nomads,
finding gifts between concrete cracks and below rocks
settled in mud
after the rain.
We acknowledged hell with a mere glance, little thinking
love might leave us wordless about eternal agony.
But these final layers,
no, not the ones on top, not the last
bit of whipped cream topping a parfait; these final layers lie
deep within the dish, the final taste of perfect goodness. Here
is where
our minds met, and nearly exploded in the velocity of
pleasures and restriction, passion and restraint in head-on
competition for an affair of the heart that satisfied the mind
as late as sentiment slept.
bit of whipped cream topping a parfait; these final layers lie
deep within the dish, the final taste of perfect goodness. Here
is where
our minds met, and nearly exploded in the velocity of
pleasures and restriction, passion and restraint in head-on
competition for an affair of the heart that satisfied the mind
as late as sentiment slept.
Would this Lover of my
Soul satisfy its imagination,
half would not be rich, semi would not be full;
but let reason ring with passion, affections
speak with acumen; and the whole more complete
having examined each competing thought with
honest eyes and unswayed heart.
We acknowledged hell with more than a glare, more wondering
love would put it there for any creation; and leaving
each interpretation to other tongues. There may be
more clever ways to constrict the days others spent
on loves with different names than we have heard.
half would not be rich, semi would not be full;
but let reason ring with passion, affections
speak with acumen; and the whole more complete
having examined each competing thought with
honest eyes and unswayed heart.
We acknowledged hell with more than a glare, more wondering
love would put it there for any creation; and leaving
each interpretation to other tongues. There may be
more clever ways to constrict the days others spent
on loves with different names than we have heard.
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