hallaig
03-28-2012, 06:57 AM
She Walks in Beauty with a Clipboard
(Or The Limitations of Poetry)
I see you in the distance.
It is grey today, not burgundy, your dress.
You are not walking like the night,
though there is a tiredness there
as you move out of sight behind the scaffolding.
I am a poet, so desperate to liken you to something,
but you are not a red rose or a fever, or a bright star,
or even a spring day like this one,
with light stretched like fabric across hot glass.
You don’t have a radiance or corona about you
but what looked to me like a clipboard.
My heart didn’t ignite or melt when I looked up
if it had, how could I still be here staring moodily
into the middle distance drinking coffee?
There would have been defibrillation.
Poetry doesn’t solve a thing, map skills
would be better, then at least I could find you,
not your essence, or anything at all that’s wordy,
just touch for a moment ineffable you.
(Or The Limitations of Poetry)
I see you in the distance.
It is grey today, not burgundy, your dress.
You are not walking like the night,
though there is a tiredness there
as you move out of sight behind the scaffolding.
I am a poet, so desperate to liken you to something,
but you are not a red rose or a fever, or a bright star,
or even a spring day like this one,
with light stretched like fabric across hot glass.
You don’t have a radiance or corona about you
but what looked to me like a clipboard.
My heart didn’t ignite or melt when I looked up
if it had, how could I still be here staring moodily
into the middle distance drinking coffee?
There would have been defibrillation.
Poetry doesn’t solve a thing, map skills
would be better, then at least I could find you,
not your essence, or anything at all that’s wordy,
just touch for a moment ineffable you.