I'm trying to learn what I've half forgotten, how to bring moments of thought--imaginary or reflective--to life through imagery in words. But with all the insights I've gained since before forgetting, I find now that I want to try out strange oblique angles. No, this isn't about me, nor anyone I think I know. But it is about someone. It's definitely about someone:
Sunday morning
He drove home a bright blond
kiss still glowing warm
on his five o clock shadow
The sun breeze speckled a golden fan
from across the horizon to the white
picket edge of the pacific
coast highway
At the end of his curvy driveway
he swept into his arms the blushing
gaze of a long white gown
laughing light amber bubbles lightly
carried across the cream canyon
threshold where orange shades of sunset
played on the lintel
All night long he wrinkled satin sheets
with passion promise and wild prose
warbled up from his songbird heart
until stars melted away
stirred in milk and coffee snug
in the arms of a long and phoneless
Sunday morning sleep
But that was then now far
at the end of the long dim
hall of yesterday today
He drives home an empty seat
that scrapes at his stiff right arm
demanding he hear the howl
of silence stark beside him and
yanks at the wheel momentary jerks
toward oncoming lights
At home he rattles the chain link weight
of a long black tie over concrete sighs
into moon shadow stillness where
cold kitchen tiles reecho his
every step like white ribs cracked
by the strain of tomorrow
All night long he creases cold gray sheets
with aimless strides across a plush brown carpet
to the moonlit banister where canyon
darkness beckons from the ache
Till finally the stars melt moonless
into strong black coffee stirred
with the acrid taste of final resolution
a bitter brew that will call that distant
Sunday morning back forever