Pink Ochre Magazine

Still our breath is a circle in the cycle of lives,
you on the couch, no Rousseau-red tapestry,
only more a blousy Lautrec & I am in the Eiffel
of what your slumber grants: that elbow twist there,
the limp, put-up hand dangling over eyes
as the other limbs, in respite, are still cloth-wrought,
covered with an anguish.

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Nothing is as palpable when there is tenderness.
Nothing, yes, but still empathy goes out & in
sensuous with the spirituous pleasure of knowing,
giving touch.

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What more from such a misfortunate stance
can one hope to receive but the solace of lying down
with the knowledge that night after night I am learning
the aching debt of trust?

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My lover, bank on that in your drunken secrecies
& miserable blabber-mouthed times.
I do bank mine for this sort of marriage
being constantly replayed is also the rhythm
of breath taught, & perhaps yet, a way to be saved.