what have i

what have i
but the dim lights of you
lovers lost behind a bleak
window,

through which i must
hurl myself headlong
if i am to gain you back
after all these days,

shattering a barrier
erected when
our intercourse
was poorly spent?

all the estranged eyes
of all the lovers i engaged
with and released are
scowling through the film,

straining against it,
hurting for
the day when we are
congregating once again,

and embracing once
again and exchanging
once again and precise
once again.

what have i
but a bowed head
and a tear full of palms
reaching out for

you through the panes, hoping
that the breast that aches for
you will not drain itself too
much, too soon.

have your faces changed?
have your once-receiving
souls stitched themselves
up into oblivion?

am i to reach you
only to find your eyes
barren and your arms cold
as god and your lungs drowned?

what have i
in my unhappy womb
unliving in fervent acts
of crushing reservation

and the wearing of
a blanket woven by masking
blinds and secured with plastic
ties of self-loathing?

i'm certain you're there,
waiting, and i gain comfort
in that knowing, in that
expectation.

with the embers of your
leaking light i can see
through such a destroying
barrier that there is hope.

what have i
no less than a hammer,
wielded by the air
of your lungs

when you showed me you
loved me and i breathed
it in with my hungry
devotions?

i am sorry that
i have flung you so far;
that i let love lapse;

that i terrified myself
out of the goodness of
your eternity and

let go stale
the bread of you
passions!

on this path i am regaining
the clarity of my
former focus, releasing the
old foe out to pasture,

chasing fears from the
corners of my mortal
encampment that i might pierce
the wall now in this new fever.

what have i
left to do but to
press through?

what have i
lost that i can
find once more?

but everything

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no latch

he wants to be in your company
in the corner away from the dance floor
because he does not dance,
that's not his scene

it's difficult for him
to bridge, to admit to the
emotions across the abyss
of all those years of programming

he'd rather his hand on your knee, perhaps,
or around your back,
so long as he can feel your pulse
against the heat of his searching

and i've closed the latch
on you, i suppose, if you want
to consider it truthfully and
can face the facts

that his desire is not so far
from my experience, that my
exclusions are as darkening as
his hopeful inclusions are lightening

lately i'm in love with the
idea of him, how his hunger
is your iris-opening, and the
spreading is in full gorgeous view

i'm guilty of so much latch-letting
in my life, of harboring my lovers
in a lightless labor, huddling them
in the shadow of my ego

expecting them to bloom in
the dark with just my spoiled
breath the heat they needed to
find their true flower

but i'm discovering the
folly of this, of seeing
the man in the corner wanting
and seeing that his is a real passion

that he sees in you what i know
in you; that there is no lechery in
a full-fired falling into the arms
of those who would fully fly

with you, and be carried by
you or carry you, so that in
either way you are not left
in a cold dark place by anyone

i am guilty of driving the latch
home after closing the door,
and peering into the narrow slats
upon my proud capture

but i am sure now that love
is best laid open, freed of the
pull of tides and yaw
of billowing conceit

that we love best when
spread to it and receiving
it unbound, believing and
coming back home

no latch

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intellectus sonet

you've approached her through that age-old passage
sure her inducement rises with your hand

engorged by the hubris of your passion
then foiled by that which you don't understand:

mouth the opening of her intellect

breathe heat on the aperture of her mind

erect a statue to her introspect

then have intercourse with all that you find

she'll then hear the beat of your native drum
invite her to discourse and she will come

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