Still Light

I am the song of sirens
and my lover is
the olive branch,
who comes to me
with doves eyes,
and not a lion,
but with a lambs heart,
lies down
in hopes to die
a thousand deaths
at least, for at least
has died a thousand
times already,
to understand the meaning
of every song I sing.

What is this fluttering about the house
that I’m almost frightened?
In morning, of all things; disoriented,
to be surrounded by so much light.
And how did you get in? As I watch
as you flit about my room; from chair
to table; with wings in a frenzied flutter,
you spin in circles on my floors, and I have
not heart to crush you. No, instead, I
watch in wonder, and in reverie, in thought,
of what brought you here? To serve as
such reminder? For I have not heart to catch
you either, for what injury I might cause,
thinking surely, if I do nothing, you will end
up in my closet, and all my sweaters will
have holes.

For all
is poetry
and language;
to bridge
two separates,
where passion
is a river
that runs
beneath
our feet.

I left the door ajar, I s’ppose,
when learned to love you so,
from a chair I took in the
other room and thought,
‘how foolish it was to think
I loved, before I even knew.’
But foolish is the thought
of love, so love picked me
the fool, that I might know
“what love is; what love is not!”
from a chair in the other room.

There are more truthful bearings, I suppose,
one could get their hands on, because
I tried for so long to hold the rudder
that I finally had to let it go, just to bring the sail
down, where now, I sit in these waters and bob
at the bow to recline happy and with my face
turned upwards, towards the sun, where you
watch me from the stern, and so I tell you,
“last night I had a dream,” I say. “Oh?” and
my eyes are still closed, my face still beaming.
‘What was it?” you finally ask.
“I dreamt I took one of your suits, the best one,
and put it on.” I look to you now, “it was huge.”
You smile. I return to my sunning, “it was all
baggy, but I remember distinctly the feel of the
fabric,” and then I pause as if this is the end.
“And?” you ask, so I continue, “then I stood at a
huge precipice, still in your best suit mind you,
over a body of water; all glistening and green,
and I remember thinking ‘I really want to dive in,
but if I do, I’ll ruin your suit and there won’t be
any way to return it without you knowing that I
wore it.’”  “And so, what did you do?” you ask,
and here, grinning from ear to ear at the
remembrance of the feeling, “oh, I jumped in.”