Friday, December 7, 2007

For John Donne

"Never lose sight of his love."
His long beard is caked with dust
and dirt.
It smells of sweat, we both,
but it brushes against my cheek
as his dried lips
cracked from the sand-heavy wind
Brush against mine.
No miracle,
but warmth and strength.
His hands are hardened from
carpentry and magic
and they slide up my back
but he is short and they
barely reach my shoulders
I bend my head further.
His tongue tastes of gristle
and raw grains.
There is a sense of acceptance
in the movement of his lips
No miracle,
but human skin that sweats
the same warmth
and scent.
He has decided not to change my life.
His chin and nose are pronounced,
the nose rubs gently
against the flesh just under my eye-
sockets, eyes closed, I can see
when they open,
a short man, carpenter,
he smiles.

1 comment:

Blake said...
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