Thursday, February 25, 2010

hunting

My evening’s are octagons.
wide angles enclosing each other,
suggesting ... but never delivering
an exit. in their semi-dark, i seek
totality -- perpetual upkeep
of my translucent surface,
my quieted brow un-furrowed,
left calm, just shy of focus.

A small, concise flame
without smoke-crease,
without thought -- not
thought less ... just quite
different: using my belly
and the mysterious presences
in my chest.

Semi-folded, demi-
clutter collects beyond
duality. feature without
Face without feature peopled with
un-morbid ghosts and comfortable haunting.
your scent before it took on
so much of my own.

Learning to recognize myself
as something more than the place
where you are now absent
or the place that you were before, or
a place in waiting for some other arrival.

I've been my own rival.
jealous of an ideal held
as my better self
seen and felt so clearly,
yet polarized and far.
ever still within, however distilled
and thinned by the fact of
my own silhouette.