Author: czvasser

 

My hands ache as I tie their shoes

they lean upon my neck.

I cannot throw them off

nor carry them.

I am older now

but Sunday

is cross country wings

and measure nothing.

 

I listen to them laugh and breathe.

I hear my heart and theirs.

I am older now

their faces shiver

when I run

and suggest a nap

but my heart

wants to metronome a pace

that spaces out my life.

It surges up the hills

currents me like a river to the sea.

Though I am older now

I must have always run.

 

On Sunday afternoons

when grass and god are everywhere

I am a prayer between them

because I run

and I am young again. 

I watch the leave shimmer
in the light and grow
and die and I suppose
that when the earth
gives up
its diadems that this
has a cosmology to it
As when the river rushes
to suicide so quiet
that no sound is breeched
but still
there is rebirth

I swing out
on a natural arc
that returns me
broken brilliantly
like so many copper pennies
I ask you
is this the depth of it
Shall I cast a net
bring back those commended to the deep
or should I sow
the sorrows that I reap
is it better to sew
mouths shut
capturing odd stones
or should we brook
all things in a sputter
based on spark and circumstance

I follow this natural arc
all rainbows have right angles
I return to tidal pools
by eclipsing one eye
then both
each a handful
of water and light
each a dream wing
that means nothing without another

I swing out
and it returns me
fractured
as a pebble busted pond

I swing out
as I do I follow the natural arc
a meter
a time
a space between some joy
or pain
that has a reason to be
more that a gaudy bauble
I hang upon your breasts
a natural arc
I follow to conclusion
do I ask how full
the measure or the season
or do I hurl
into the curve
and does the crowd
sigh
for more.

 

The venetian cuts the sad,

I knit with it.

There is an endgame between us.

I somersault,

you cartwheel.

We nijinsky through the afternoon,

me, the snake plant and the fish.

We are familiar here,

armored against the free fall,

your hair is in a cleanline room.

Conjure far away,

I am a sunflower gone.

I wish I were with you.