When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix
wings to fly at my desire.
John
Keats
moon—
I think it has begun to
rain.
Soft drops bend the leaves, still
the
crickets…
birds though—they remain
beneath a canopy of
variegated
green, easy
in their song. And the warm
air presses gently against
my cheek,
the way in a dream a
lover
would, the thin aural
mingle
without pressure
or consumption—simply
warmth
that would, ah, never
could,
ebb away, even if
the rain gained speed
and all fled
save the curved bowls
of one mouth
against another within
it all,
even if the rain ceased
and the crickets
resumed
rubbing, rubbing
No comments:
Post a Comment