at the End of the Day
We sat in trance to watch the pale sun rise
drinking chicory coffee whitened with
each others’ scents and sighs,
writing poems in the curl of steam
above the cups, chalking on the skies
that spellbright starwild chase that burns the blood
and ends in darkness, quick release, exanimate mud.
“These still must be gobbled down,”
you said, so professorially weird,
grey as grey could be today
in your wooly suit and beard.
All was not as well as hoped, but much as feared,
for loving is the gate I can’t pass by
and being loved a knot I’ll never tie.
I’m not afraid to keep these mocha kisses,
or braid a supple rope of words
to belt a habit culled from misses,
but what are you, which ghost do I love now?
Even as I ask, the heart confesses:
You love the thing that always runs before,
the shadow come to howl at heaven’s door.
Yet still we drink our coffee here and sing,
those songs that suit our joint imagining;
all bits of you blown scattered across the years,
each artifact dug from bone and cleaned with tears;
the amber eyes, the brown, the sailor blue,
the crack of wise, the note that’s always true,
the bridge that builds itself from golden air,
while you sip, and morning softly greys your hair
from yellow, currant black, till nothing’s there.
Image: courtesy google image search