Hauntings

An opening octave of light where he emerges.
All other shapes fall silent, shift to sand,
swarm down while he swims through my vision in
harmonic toning. What music is this?
Condensed to gather across his features like frost
on a long window guarding the cold at its night-side;
cracked by the bloom of heat from mine.
From mine, where memory curls its flat shadows off smoke;
falling from the plump plumes; all quiet disaster,
satisfied to shimmy up careless recollections ...
slow to dissipate.

Ever-unfolding memory of a plucked bow,
a shutted heat vent, a big spoon still tasting like
the last lips held then pulled across it.
Deep inside the beside of you, I whither in the old words from
a last time. The clamour of you; bell resplendant,
unhindred hammer-swish drone, drowning out
the hiss of air expelled from our slow dying tide.
Mine, still reaching and bringing,
bringing in shells full of what I would put there:
A wooden flower, burning.
An artist's mannequin changing poses
on its own in a dark studio - the artist has little to draw from.

Draw towards me, close in closer to me, open-handed,
my brushes fall to the floor.
My blushing pencil splinters lead and
fragments from something in myself,
they stain the incompleteness - a page complicated by
its own blankness, and all that implies.

Somewhere in the wise unforgotten,
where the moon's borrowed light meekly bellows its own
interpretation of the illuminated;
there, a memory hesitates, collects itself, resumes.
That light takes to my skin.
Skin melting into that light.

The deeper spaces of
my own purple-pelted-darkness melting,
until my darkness flames and readjusts to
my new, organless form.

The deeper spaces where
the void is cluttered and hunger is vanquished
by its own presence.

A weighted curtain covers a window,
now bricked over. Dark haunt of moon
reflecting its reflection from a pool.
I cast a stone at its belly,
perhaps to break the cycle, perhaps
to open my own cloaked heart and
lend that garment to you, as you're closing a
weighted curtain on a window now bricked over.

Our memories sticking across the glass
my eyes pass
over your eyes
recalling ... ah, but its no longer there.
I still see; seek to see through it.
I watch you flicker; can smell green burning.
Destroy the fire to salvage its wounded,
half-eaten fuel? Why?
When all has gone to ash, I'll dip my pen there,
or pull a coal forth, and use it
to write these words.