In the Neighborhood
Silence is strength, as with all excess, it strangulates.
In your case not only metaphorically. You let wounds
stir-fry in your inner wok. If only a willing one had
sampled your nosh, its stench would not have sullied
you and stopped decibels of silence from wiping out.
The trail of your sorrow will quell tardily as engrams
sequester the frailties of your act. No ache is as incisive,
it needles one to embroider one’s endnote. If only alembic
agencies had prevented you by asking: why this haste?
Through your harmonies I have been able to touch
the hoofprint of your tenderness. The fragility
of your fear grabs me. We have a generation
between us. Time hasn’t altered anything. You have
to wear your garment of grief I have to wear mine.
Now and then, a breed of stallions kickoff their tantivies
on the bridle path of polysemy. The manners of mating
are perilous. Our placement keeps us as kleptomaniacs
in the emporium of love. Shortages do this. Perception
of chronic shortages more so.
Seafaring skills prepared me to plough
the seven seas. Switcheroo had me
helpless in a harbor whose whereabouts
I shy to summon up even to myself.
In the noiselessness of the night
when loneliness lets loose her lullaby,
I chanced upon a gypsy carrying
the appeal of an argosy and gamboled.
Another folder was added
to my catalog of chastisements.
Current schatzi is terrified of triumphs
while this castaway faces atychipobia.
In the statuary of my branular orb your figurine shines the sharpest.
When fate conspires to have us face to face you bring to naught
the herringbone fabric I primp your mannequin with. I like the layers
I pad you with: you’re you, plus my decoupage. This suits our setting.
The dominion of physical distance invigorates our weal with you
chirking best inside me, heedful of my heart as your homestead.