29 March 2011

Once whispered, you,
Descried by a touchless me;
Of turbid vessels, we:
In self-confliction entwined.
Imagined our warm wooden room
Of no tree in perfection wrought
By a threadbare mutual I.
Yes palpable by heat,
Your solitary hand
And seaside hair:
Not physicality,
But a tautened string of thought
Was for a time our slight selves.

14 March 2011

Was that today, my daughter?
We seemed as younger selves,
Dressed in future swiftness,
With a rational countryside of time
Beneath our joined hands.
Through iterations of incidental honesty
Are our yesterdays to this present fixed,
And the landscape crossed with crooked years.
We sifted happenstance for what quality?
It was fast, it was all of love.