the spool

when the grey clouds swarm over my head,
I just move an inch away from your soul
we’ve learned to march on, we part, we hesitate
your dark side knows why a song climbs to a climax
then, your decrescendo and
the tinkling of my empty glass on the table

which spool is playing now? our bodies lie still,
un-betrothed, thus the story goes, thus the story will end
ears impaired by cries of the souls groping for the light
your eyes grow tired, my words do little to ease up
our symmetrical margins keep building and collapsing

we pretend we’re innocent of the fraud
we don’t say that we need to destroy to live

this is for another repetition, now moving in lethargy
heavy-eyed, untangling the night
from this prison cell

stupid longing,
when one is allowed a good sleep?

tea

cinnamon orange tea, with a slush of Midwest fall
in the white “Wizard of Oz” cup
it’s going down the sink – the tea
it’s going to fly out of the window – the cup
your hand has committed crime of neglect
it has lost its authority to hold up or down
my sanity – all that can keep
a good glass of tea from being wasted

of the so many things we’re guilty of
there is sour we left in each other’s insides
what you’ve left you may not lay claim to
what I threw up is what I’d betrayed

past winter, past the dead souls
I’m not yet okay though I shun
those who read the signs on me
what do they know?
what do you know of the lives of
the blood suckers?
I hide from the white lights

cinnamon orange tea in the cup that still holds up
my hands know the warmth and are patient
after all, they won’t wait forever
nothing will – we’re all bound to
have a sip before we go