unmade bed

this is/this was

here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
left only now to misshapen sheets
and my hands on your hands
    hands of a body
    your body
    eyes of windows immensity
    after evenings hour
    your moonlit being

here, this is/ this was
the scene of our love
and configuration of sleeping bodies
     head to head
     on cased feather pillows
dreamt singing voices
     of your gravity
     after midnights hour
and my obeisant being

this is
this was
the scene of
our love
now a windowless immensity
after mornings hour
and your vanished being

 - hoc scripsi


at this time I am working on three long poems and a short one. The shorty is completed I believe (I'll check on it in a week or so and probably hate it) but the longer ones need more attention. After that they are off to the New Yorker, then Atlantic and Harper's to get rejected - after that maybe the better journals where the will have a chance. I mention all of this only because I have no prose today other than this. I am devoting my energies to these poems and picking up my new pistol today - Illinois has a 3 day waiting period.

The other day I was called a Buddhist with bullets and it is the first time I enjoyed such a thing as this. It's accurate so it's fun.

om