Motion/Silence
What storm, a severed house
with its matched pleats, scattered
breaths of lightning, broken thirds?
What children, double-helix
of limbs, that precision of sleep?
For there is no love
but this: your face, our room
with its parted legs. A darkened city
with papery rain and drawn dusk.
What vagueness, all your force,
but what could we mend
with clarity? You know a body
will move against resistance.
And for this, I have made
our bed. The lamp
has burned intention to a slip.
Come to your place. What solace
is there to outlast this?
I have already left you
as much as I can.
Wendy Scofield
(but I wish it were mine.)
3 comments:
That poem is so very beautiful.
It is. Good to hear from you, bluebird girl.
I hope your own pretty poems are happening.
s
Yes! Good to have seen you. Your book awaited me here.
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