Naranga

I am, I am fullfilling
short and long histories.
All ties, where knots
have confounded fingers,
to loosen these white devotion
ribbons, they sweetly
anchor me.
I keep trying to see
past it, the arc of the hill,
digital distances I have stored up
against you. I wither when
it doesn't feel the same,
broken & scattered, when
I appeal to the feeling I am
giving you the wrong impressions,
(I have many more hollow spaces
in here than that); the last day
after tunneling in caves of one color,
in the rain; it's just like that;
like that one last glimpse
I sent when you were not
looking, the orange I peel
in one long strand, its carcass
of oil numbs the tongue.

If you want me to be,
I will be all the houses,
empty. I pray the presence
of such sensations are
whole & pure, they ripple
into my marrow, my deepest
sad presuppositions, the way
I stand waiting, what precious
and sorrowful singings.
But if I fall over myself
in that first eye-to-eye tasting, if
I cannot courageously say
all I came to say, what wasted
gardens, the tin can I strung
between windows, it whispers,
it will garner like a tender orchard,
the fruit falling open in jeweled parcels.
The faster this spins
the more I want its distance
& the intimacy that comes
in crossing it,
the geometries of the seed in my
many, many the-frost-killed-them,
lives. I have been trying to be,
being just with what I feel.
I feel swallowed up with
the very nakedness I saw you
see & cannot hide from,
the pith, the moon
of fingernails

upon the peel.

Reviews

[Serend1p1ty]

Wow, I'm taken aback.
The skill here is so evident to see.
Your style is so deep, so thought out.
You suck the reader in here, it almost feels like you're whispering all this.
Excellent write.

Yours truly,
cloud6