Sun Fight
Obsessive, yes
with the things unable to disclose –
the colour of my infant years;
the warm goo of being the only one
to proudly lamp the black open sky.
I have the ruins;
something that burns your shoulder,
hard to clench your fist in the pull
of an orange ripe from the tree.
Your hands, my dear, your hands
from climbing to the top of the hill
leave behind such curiosities.
Could you explain why you touched me
that way, why you thought to coax me
down with the histories of the earth
in your bag? I move - the curve
of the most beautiful - though with haste you shield your eye;
our blood entwining within your veins,
sharp loves on impulse.
Do you think it fair
that the insides of me are consumed
as if I was no more than a dribble of wine?
How I embrace you, folly and all, with warmth
for you turn to me with a squinted eye
and say I have things to make of you?
To make of me?
Have you not felt the plough of my heat,
the dryness of my stare?
How I could disease your fields
with the wilted taste of coughing
heads and shrivelled corn?
Have you not taken your woman’s arms
around yours and kissed her neck -
that freckled fingertip of me?
Did you not see the river’s waist
corseted in the highest day
I took to the sky; the horizon rising
like shredded ribbons of air?
What things can you make of me?
On those days you know me hiding,
the sorrows will witness;
every type of flower you are,
pleading for god.
Mikhail Smith
Thu 6th Dec 2012 10:39
- deep private thoughts ? - how's the novel going ?