Monday, September 30, 2013

You Said Things Like, “Moderation”

And “balance”
But I wanted to be haunted
By the evening eclipse,
Tilting on solitary rhythms
Of shallow breath and deep fear;
 
We are not alike.
Repeat.

The grass still fresh and wet
Under a withering sun,
Rising up our dull slate ceiling
Stamped with the lucid memory
Of a ghost moon; pallor and pregnant,
With visions
Of delicate trespasses.

Hopeful whirring of cars in the distance,
Traveling to chosen destinations,
You asked if I was going to be okay.
I said, “who the hell knows what that feels like, anyway.”