poem

Oh, the problem was that there was a poem I hadn't written. I see. Perhaps now I shall be able to get some sleep.

Not sure about the title. Or the poem; I'll decide if I like it later.

EDIT: fixed some stuff, changed the title.




Textures
(love in August)
8.13.11

It’s late and I am
edgy, joyful from a night of dance
and wearied down with grieving.

Trying to remember
that the night is warm
that outside, tall redwoods curve upward to meet
their gentle and twinkling indigo sky;

and

bushing laundry from my travel-bag I
am stilled to breathe the faintest
scent of her home on the soft fabric
of my old dressing gown.
For all at once,
swirling round my heart like rainwater:
all the textures of her,
her lightness in my arms.