10-26-2016, 03:43 AM
My latest poem about you is a failure.
It should have been about Angel Oaks,
instead the lines contain headless men,
an unspectacular sunset.
I wanted to write about a clear stream,
a place where God is a red dot on a map,
a place where humidity and summer heat
allow sweat to form like rosary beads
in the shallows of your breasts.
I imagine you in a white dress,
poem in your right hand,
dangling inches from the floor.
After all this, you are here
and I am there; both of us looking
through a window at old stars.
(** based on a work by Jack Vettriano)
It should have been about Angel Oaks,
instead the lines contain headless men,
an unspectacular sunset.
I wanted to write about a clear stream,
a place where God is a red dot on a map,
a place where humidity and summer heat
allow sweat to form like rosary beads
in the shallows of your breasts.
I imagine you in a white dress,
poem in your right hand,
dangling inches from the floor.
After all this, you are here
and I am there; both of us looking
through a window at old stars.
(** based on a work by Jack Vettriano)