i used to attempt poetry writing. i say “used to” and “attempt” because i have long since admitted defeat. i can’t do real poetry writing justice. what i have held onto since those days, now nearly a decade past, is my love of words. i love the way they wear their autobiographies, so cleverly disguised.
i found among my old papers a few messy little ditties. emotionally overwrought as befits their youthful authorship. but so very earnest. these have not been shared for quite some time.
Love in a harbor at midnight
The sloop at dock rests its inverted arch
in the trough of the saltwater harbor.
At midnight, unawares.
And this is Love.
This harbor, that dock:
This night, that filmy
worn so careless and open,
all collarbone and shoulder blade.
In another country I die
listening to the sounds of your sleep,
your rattling breath, a slow drum
beating its slow beat.
Night presses on, swift and inexorable
I wait here in silence unbearable.