July 13, 2019
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architecture
this is the architecture
of loneliness:
beside a river full of black boulders,
a window
in which there are scenes
of families
while a little match-girl
stands outside
in eternally
falling
snowthis is the architecture
of loneliness:
a kitchen
where a woman
stands at the stove
staring into space
not noticing
that the water
has all boiled awaywhite sand accumulating
in the bottom
of an hourglass
all sounds coming from the outside
yellow specks of dust floating
in the empty rooms
of the heartlove spoken
only from memory
in a voice raspy from lack of usea dead wasp on the windowsill
this is the architecture
of loneliness:
the point of transparency
where ice melts
or a cotton fiber
unravels the S twist of its existence
or an autumn leaf begins to redden
or on the horizon
below a cloud
lines of rain
(like you)
vanish in air
Comments (1)
Chisa's Rain Poem
Somewhere, along those placid lines
along the soft turns
of your helter-hair
is a poem yet to tear itself
from your body's curves
I know it is there
I feel its shape
shifting from finger to lip
and from hand to chest
Words try, but fail
like raindrops on a windowsill
You lay at ease from everything
your slight smile is such a proper title
for this silent song
that your body hears
The shift, of your delicate hand
to mine, trying to find
where I've gone so suddenly
I am here, beside you, writing
of this day that continued the night
Rain outside buys us so much time
that we can spend lazy, and hectic
if we like
I guess though, that I gave it away
This third person shadowing
our bed scene
It's that immensely winged dragon
called poetry
-How it eludes me,
like a favorite thought
Like an ex lover
that never said goodbye
I know that my whispers
can cover where the kisses trailed off
I know that my hands
can tuck the corners
of this wonderful day
tight around you
There's nothing I can't do for you
But the hell of this moment
is exclusive to me
I have to finish with words
while my body is resting
So much that I want to do
words are the last success upon you
as you kiss me with cursives
Our fingers string together
another verse
Silent songs of want
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How many days more
I don't know
how much can it rain?
Chisa, poems are tickets
to a great show
I can't write fast enough
to keep up with you
so take my body, in place of words
It doesn't have to be love every time
it can be prose
Within that glaze
of your sated eyes
'neath the shield
of your helter-hair
My muse sings so loud
with just her smile
Rain claps upon the sill
as I, in audience, cry
encore, encore
The rain is singing now
and I know the verse
"kiss her" is what I hear
as Chisa wears letters for clothes
Words that land softly
curled like a pet
beside her feet.
MC19
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