John Eivaz
Blur
We suffer
the bed,
our writhing
time wants
no end
or entropy,
stimulation
of stars,
solar
wind,
no poem
of writhing,
nothing
self-reflexive
nor someone
over a shoulder,
for these things
end too.
But I love
to touch:
your shoulder,
a poem;
saunter in
strong,
disappear
shaking.
We suffer
the bed,
the floor,
a cool lawn
at sunset,
make peace
with wind
and stars,
immortalize
fingers,
preach
the blur
of rainstorm --
how it helps us
forgive our
exactitudes.
The scent you leave
on me mingles
with stars.
Later, I remember.
Trio campout at deathpoint
the cold thin blanket
scratches my ankles
as the fire draws down
into its own burnt wood
and the first chill
well past midnight
brings back green walls
blue bed
the midpoint of kiss
meant to end the fire
meant to make sleep
between desires
every chill after
leaves me closer
to you
sundown at deathcamp
no need rumor
or inside information
there's a tired march
into sleep nothing
can hide smells
sights eyes
walls
looking more
at walls
the space man untethered
recurring dream of UFOs
how the aftermath of the bomb would feel
the radiation
words like aftermath
scared me
grafting
some narcotic
sunset
onto every
bright bare
death
(i was
at least
afraid of
the less-
explainable
back then)
death meditation
I am a dishonest man.
I cannot do the death meditation.
I have begun to imagine
myself leaving these places
as I close in on sleep --
but choose sleep instead,
choose love instead
in the imagined clearing
the music of moonlight
soft upon her
as I choose this sleep instead.
©2004 by John Eivaz
