Friday, December 18, 2009

Point. Counterpoint.


In a foreign dimension
unencumbered by
a Ministry of Tourism,
Transportation or Travail,
there is a Ministry of Love

its counterpart
a Ministry of Sorrow
in this land I call home

separated by time
whose undulations
warp and fold
marrying time to space

love is the gentle glance
that seals our fate


In the beginning
your fingers barely
touched mine
as we exchanged
business cards
and repartee

I wrote you letters
You littered your conversation
with futurity
arriving each Monday


Entwining love and sorrow
weaving mystery into romance
surety into loss
remorse into compassion
discourse into silence
gleaning redemption
from end pieces
a taste is all we're given


Your bid meted out in public
all in, doubling down
a gambler's calculated risk

I always liked
the thrill of the die
rolling out of your hand
your eye sweeping the board
seeing invisible moves ahead


of unknown provenance
kidnapped from Hell
perform orations of fate

Secrets within lies
within unsettled histories
foretell the collected works
cross-dimensional collaboration
of the Ministry of Abandonment

The sands have dissipated
the bolt unraveled
the loom smashed into bits


At the end of the day
I hold your hand
your skin fitting loosely
like snakeskin
while its owner
lies vulnerable
enduring the
passage of time

End Point

All nights are difficult
all days hard

Missing you
before you've left
leaves me bereft

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