I’ll wander if I’m wrong, but I think it was the light,
a happy light that shone all two-weeks-long
and trundled over countryside to feel
apart that’s missing.
In denser nights, two-clouded breath
seeks out to find the part that’s left behind,
still tuned for strumming.
But it’s here, in this clearing
all smeared in your colours,
the paint spans nearly a full torso, humming
and chanting a false incantation.
Sickened, I leave it
to those mawkish delusions
and go back to my bus in the country.
This too has its place (and place
my hand on it to prove it,
shift it to the right)
this hand, these lips and thighs
all out my jurisdiction,
so I slide
one book on top another,
make sure they’re aligned.
Thinking how, I never stop.
There’s a million ways, no-
to ply the words and find the thoughts,
find myself in the right situation.
I’ve wound there, well enough, enough times.
But never perfect, no arm quite right,
no legs so tightly bound together
to make it seamless
so it seems like it’s a natural progression
from one thing to another. One things leads to
another, you know.
But no such chance arose.
I know it’s pointless
mulling over all those lost plans
but happiness stands between you and I, love.