stretch and simply burst

It’s been four days
since the clocks gasped
into upside down dunes in drops
of fog
on the black backs of desert beetles.

White sky threaded blue-grey
like a breakfast lovingly made.

Eternity, seasons, the gas
and electric bill
arrived, handwritten, at our door;
raw jaws shaved
down to bone, ready
with simple,
smiling demands.

They were turned away
by the black backs at our door.
You and I, we forgot
that love is carried
on the lips of lonely questions,
we forgot
to listen for voices.

Yesterday
as you plucked at strings and songs
of water,
the clocks hummed and quivered
and some smiles stretched and slowly
burst.

Gas and electric,
eternity, winter
came back the next morning with
two knives,
a battering ram.

You and I, we forgot
to watch the fog
from which we once arrived,
we forgot
to listen for their final, quivering
calls.

We forgot to carry our share
of answers.

The door stretched and slowly
burst.
The knives sliced
through fog.
When the clocks rolled off our backs
and into restful lips, you turned
in your sleep and felt my body
stretch and slowly
remember

to smile.

 

 

Note: Image was taken at Nye Beach, Newport, Oregon.

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