biographic

young, i sat in laps

and held tall hands.

she sung in rooms

next to us, i asked

and didn't understand

but heard the singing

in my ears and my head.

infatuation followed

the blooming of epiphany

where any sight of her

satisfied soulmindheartevery

part of me:

she made enough.

such a pretty face she had

(except in harsher light,

edges of stray shadows

would defile her

complexion in

complexity

in

to

dark)

to betroth, before love

said the ones,

who once were tall.

i loved her so

in the moment

in the sometimes

in the good light.

the night before,

wanted to love her

in the nightlight

which sharply cast

the darkest cuttings

across her face

canceling everything

i knew about her shape.

yesterday, i stood in shoes

hands in pockets.

awoke to her

in the morning mist

my arm, in drift

clasping nothing, and then sheets

(got up in the night,

wandered away)

she was infertile,

at any rate.

my dream in that sleep:

the world was filled with

even light, about the trees

about the yous and i(s)

were drenched in rationale

and bathed the all

and turned me on.

song is naught

but apparitions

complexion for complexity

to make me wish

for silence

or forgetting of

her face.