TheFifthElement
09-24-2008, 02:11 PM
I
We lie on the cusp of something
in between one thing and another,
neither here nor there, or anything much.
Or something amazing.
A dark world approaching the night’s end.
Watch, as the stars go out one by one:
small flames pressed between blue fingers
spreading, cradling the new world.
The earth turns towards the warm sun.
So slowly
a tongue of light slides damply over the soft hills.
Curves, like a woman’s curves, dark against
a burning sky.
How privileged we are to be here
watching the light form:
the light of creation,
tumbling down through the valley
the cold earth stretching, springing to life.
II
I come now
not to speak of hands,
of lips,
of eyes;
or the light,
how it spools
down
through the warm bush
of your hair,
sliding like water
over
under
the bridge of your neck,
a river,
cascading
down the smooth valley,
of your back,
fast:
a swollen river.
Rests. Deep into the cleft
where my eyes, my lips,
my hands rest.
Come.
Let us not speak.
III
His hand is on her knee
as he’s telling the story,
over again,
of how they first met.
He remembers,
he says,
the thinness of her dress
and her legs
clearly visible
through the light fabric.
He laughs then,
as he recounts the ease
of movement; the dress
slipping from her body
through his fingers
like warm rain,
shivering.
His hand on her knee
insisting:
‘do you remember…do you remember?’
She doesn’t hear him:
night is upon them.
Her head lolls onto his shoulder
as she slips into sleep.
She dreams,
and remembers the dancing.
We lie on the cusp of something
in between one thing and another,
neither here nor there, or anything much.
Or something amazing.
A dark world approaching the night’s end.
Watch, as the stars go out one by one:
small flames pressed between blue fingers
spreading, cradling the new world.
The earth turns towards the warm sun.
So slowly
a tongue of light slides damply over the soft hills.
Curves, like a woman’s curves, dark against
a burning sky.
How privileged we are to be here
watching the light form:
the light of creation,
tumbling down through the valley
the cold earth stretching, springing to life.
II
I come now
not to speak of hands,
of lips,
of eyes;
or the light,
how it spools
down
through the warm bush
of your hair,
sliding like water
over
under
the bridge of your neck,
a river,
cascading
down the smooth valley,
of your back,
fast:
a swollen river.
Rests. Deep into the cleft
where my eyes, my lips,
my hands rest.
Come.
Let us not speak.
III
His hand is on her knee
as he’s telling the story,
over again,
of how they first met.
He remembers,
he says,
the thinness of her dress
and her legs
clearly visible
through the light fabric.
He laughs then,
as he recounts the ease
of movement; the dress
slipping from her body
through his fingers
like warm rain,
shivering.
His hand on her knee
insisting:
‘do you remember…do you remember?’
She doesn’t hear him:
night is upon them.
Her head lolls onto his shoulder
as she slips into sleep.
She dreams,
and remembers the dancing.