The greyness of togetherness
sway on their heads like unharvested grain,
his left hand searches for its weathered other;
swings her bag back into her right,
and leaves him,
steals a glance,
then stares at the cell of the grey carpet
trapped in a heart that used to feel concrete.
Chapped lips, closed arms, crossed legs,
if these creaking gates fail right now
he may say too much too much too much.
She stretches with the aftertaste of his soul on her lips
beaming with the light of certainty,
inhaling the gravel, the iron tracks and the scent of late afternoon.
Guarding the genie of his chai latte
the stained man mists the Starbucks window
sipping the aroma of 9 am.
Love is not a tank or a war, it is
beetle in dirt nurturing seed,
morning dew wetting sapling,
westerly wind strengthening bark,
spring ray nudging shy bud.
Darling, I will love you as tenderly
as a hurricane kisses coconuts on the bay.
My love, like a Colombian espresso
distilled into tiny china and bombed down like rum
that sweet heat that ravenous river
cascading into you like waterfalls,
making ravines in the corners of your ribs,
lighting caves in the chambers of your quickened heart
watching your pupils dilate, nostrils flare,
and lips quiver like they just found God, again.
The leaves are wet with British tears
For summer’s due and winter’s fled
Yet spring is blue without a care
Its four degrees with gale force winds
As the streets drown in forlorn stares.
The moon does not rise.
Neither does the sun,
we spin, close our eyes
and hope they remain,
with no plan B devised.