Longform, those poems we love,
Where we say, "Oh!" and "Ah!" and, "I remember," and
"once, in Brooklyn,"
"once, in Tangiers,"
"once, once, once..."
and once is today.
I lay upon a sheetless mattress,
window open to the city below,
cars and doves and the smell of the dryer exhaust
tired Tuesday afternoon
imperfect rhyme and labored breathing
the odd sensuality of dust
thoughts of my masters, oh, sure,
we name them Whitman, Shaw, Millay,
but we whisper mother, father, God,
and remembrance, and thoughts, and smiles
legs entwined and
always the skin,
always the fingers lingering on the skin,
always the soft fingers and the pleasure of it
bright eyes, and dimples,
and a dream,
or was it real?
in which we walzed.
Why does poetry appeal to a broken heart?
Oh, I am happy, yes of course, I am happy.
A woman, grown, with curves and muscles and wisdom but not yet wrinkles,
this is the best I have ever had it, life, and I-
I have given this to myself-
and in a way I was never appealing to men my own age
when I was but a slip of a girl,
now I find I don't care,
and the less I care, the more they call,
and write, and froth, and wonder
at the thing they
think they must have lost
death, and dying, and youth, and sex, and possibility,
and apps and countdowns and technology
and algorithms to your demise
the wine is still red and my lips are still wet
and that is all that matters, is it not?
and since you have forgotten
what it was you lost
let me show you only this:
I shall forever run
Me, the wild haired woman in the sky,
beckoning to you when the stars come out to dance
whispering into your hidden hearing
"Join me, lover,
lay down your complacency
and your rules
and your death
and your imminent demise
join me in the sky tonight