Saturday, July 21, 2018

Job to his coy lover

I have strained my back by loving you,
discovered sores
on once fresh skin,
scar tissues tender routes,
mapping out the dermal road
to nowhere.

Bent over backwards,
over the oak leaves wind-rustling on the window,
I strain to hear your voice,
Listening for it on lonely mornings,
between the radio frequencies
in dense air
when the rain clouds fill the bay.


In the recesses of a stormy heart,
dark coves of rock under tempest waves,
I dive to find a pearl
(I am told)
of great price—
the lake floor is
fistfuls of silent sand.


Each muscle's energy expended—
depleted—
straining towards you.
an irrefutable and unplumbable foundation.

No, I do not know
where celestial water
splashes on atmospheric floodgates.


I get it—
the mysteries of mountain goats
and habits of wild horses
are utterly unknown to me.

But if you wanted,
you could tell me
where the eagle builds her nest,
and how many stars are in the sky.

If you felt
so inclined,
my ears would be, too.

Speak.

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