Thursday, October 05, 2006

Some Thunderless Thursday

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:

  1. That poem is so very beautiful.

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  2. It is. Good to hear from you, bluebird girl.

    I hope your own pretty poems are happening.

    s

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  3. Yes! Good to have seen you. Your book awaited me here.

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