Tuesday, February 1, 2011

you wrote yourself upon my life.

I will sit here and try to think
of words for you.
And if I don't succeed today,
I will try again tomorrow.

February 1, 2011
. . .


I'll write of you, if I dare,
I will write in words that I can find,
if I can find,
if I can spy,
and when I do, I'll pen them quick
and kiss them well,
for they have been elusive things.

It is a lifetime's endeavour,
specific, and poignant, and ageless.
Words too large would drown you.
Words too small mightn't suffice,
but it's the littlest words that fit into these spaces
(the delicate, trembling,
secrets places)
I have for you.

So I will search them out,
on road signs,
and in library books;
on billboards,
and pages of Scripture;
on advertisements,
and in mindless files,
and in root words,
and prefixes,
and grammatical text.

I will look for your words
in lyrics,
and in postscripts,
and in old shoeboxes;
on discarded magazine piles,
on the backs of poets' receipts;
I'll trace out the stars
and connect the dots;
I'll tip my head and squint my eyes
to find you script
in paintings
and architecture
and antique tablature.


I'll listen for you
in childish prattle on the playground,
in my own head's recitations;
in quotation,
in poems,
in lexical lists I've filed in notebooks
on my dusty shelves.
I will sit inside myself, hours and hours,
I will sit and contrive;
I shall will my mind to dream up terms
and luscious phrase that can compare
to your face,
to our lifetime,
and to this breathlessness.


And if I cannot find you words, my love;
if I burn out this candle and cannot find
a second wind
and all the life inside of my exhales
until the flame is snuffed
and I,
like a tiny film of ephemeral smoke,
wisp into the air with my last breath--
if then I cannot find you language, love,
then know
I wrote you sonnets inside myself
on love, and awe, and silence.

February 1, 2011

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