RollerQueen
04-11-2005, 03:11 AM
This is not one of my best, but that image in those first two lines has been stuck with me for weeks now, and I had to give it a home somewhere. It is partially a response to a poem that a friend of mine wrote after we went to the college that he is going to do a graduate studies program at. It is also four in the morning as I finish this. Expect this to change.
At M. Dimler
A candelabra flickers on
The chartreuse jaundice of your face
In this grainy photograph
(I blame it on the filament).
To the still life's credit,
Your eyes brighten to amber
In the fake, yellow light,
Providing companionship in this insomniac hour
I lie in this bed
That we shared in conversation,
Never lust, never lost
In adolescent temptation.
Was it so long ago
You shook the snow from your hair
And playfully onto my sleep-swollen cheeks,
The forming droplets, your arctic kiss?
I'd watch as they'd slide down, catch your feet,
And fall into our clandestine evening.
Oh, the warmth of the silver-
Exposed eyes pressed to paper
That adorns my bedside
This still night will suffice.
With cold flushed from bone,
I can rest before sunrise.
What dreams passed through this time
Will not escape me come the morning.
But maybe that's it:
Those of us who understand
That we are put here to die
Are as such put here to comfort
Those in the same position.
What greater honor is there than that?
We are our despair and their hope.
At M. Dimler
A candelabra flickers on
The chartreuse jaundice of your face
In this grainy photograph
(I blame it on the filament).
To the still life's credit,
Your eyes brighten to amber
In the fake, yellow light,
Providing companionship in this insomniac hour
I lie in this bed
That we shared in conversation,
Never lust, never lost
In adolescent temptation.
Was it so long ago
You shook the snow from your hair
And playfully onto my sleep-swollen cheeks,
The forming droplets, your arctic kiss?
I'd watch as they'd slide down, catch your feet,
And fall into our clandestine evening.
Oh, the warmth of the silver-
Exposed eyes pressed to paper
That adorns my bedside
This still night will suffice.
With cold flushed from bone,
I can rest before sunrise.
What dreams passed through this time
Will not escape me come the morning.
But maybe that's it:
Those of us who understand
That we are put here to die
Are as such put here to comfort
Those in the same position.
What greater honor is there than that?
We are our despair and their hope.