Poetry

longing

My hand falls open by my side
As you reveal yourself to me;
Small strings of you hop from fingertip
To nerves–waiting for flesh.

I’ve seen you, and will see you again;
I’ve felt the droughts of your skin alleviate
The light of your face, the simple, quiet
Moan of my weight on you.

We raise the violin, taut strings–
Our notes open together, our fury,
Our gentleness, music in
Our own time signature.

Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *