Languor

January 30, 2012

These thin lips

give me away –

a flimsy scribble

guarding against all

I was never

going to say.

The good inentions

lie

somewhere just beneath

the tongue.

An indefinable langour,

lost and lumpy,

dissipates into nothing,

the way steam escapes

from your breath

into the cold

winter air.

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Grace moves slowly

round the room

Like a foggy mist

or the scent of your lover’s perfume,

Stopping now and then

to fix your collar

Before you ever notice.

*

Grace moves slowly

Round the room

Like a lazy parade

on a long horizon

forgetting all about the time

lingering to observe

the panoramic splendor

of sunlit slants on the floor.

*

Grace moves slowly

Stopping in places

It shouldn’t

Nor would you expect  –

Hovering over broken shards,

Catching the light’s reflection,

Defying the laws of physics

In the gutter’s shallow flow

*

Grace moves slowly.

She is oblivious

to your impatience

and your fallow objections,

All along admiring

the bright, white

expansive opportunity

of emptiness

*

So go ahead, and blow out your breath.

Exhale into nothing,

and rid yourself from

the tepid debris.

That cloud

was lifted

Long ago.

Photo image thanks to Nance. (Thanks, nance.)