poem: girl waiting alone for her lover, at dusk

I am watching the trees catch Darkness,

the cupped hands, the branches, all shaking;

feminity is caught tight in the branches,

the men are earth and sea and sky.


Night stumbles into the foreground; she is drunk,

she watches her enthronement:

the earth laid thin, dyed with falling

eyes, faded

mirth, coughing angels.

This is the hour to say

Love is a myth

told in rosaries to the dead:

you were all in shadow, crossing between

the pavement and the fields,

birds winging the distance and

my self-actualization kept tight and raw.


you are breathing into cupped hands, lighting me on fire.

there is nothing ruined here, nothing forgotten;

we are in the small glowing hours, between day

and night

fantasy and reality; and I come undone,

the spinning tampered down to one horizon,

to the endless things that keep us sad

and apart: we are the gothic people,

just ruined,

exoticized and eroticized

and forgotten.


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