Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Considering Forms of Love


You're on your back,
sweat on your belly drying like sand;
striped sheet,
a smell of tidal marshes
and iron.
The surge and ebb of him is still echoing--
in your pulse and trucks out on the highway,
and the thwacking blades of that helicopter.
It has been searching for an hour,
or fifteen minutes, useless,
like a dog chasing cars.
His breath has turned slow,
and you trace cracks in the ceiling
while they turn into branches and twigs
against a March sky and
you are watching clouds spin
above the merry-go-round
you pushed it fast
to catch and lean back, and back
until your hair brushes the dust
as you wind down from flying.

WWP Prompt 31: Love