The Results of August

I could not have found

a more perfect dress

for wearing in the middle

of March.

How do we measure

the significance of your

swift steps in the evening

as you return home.

A home where you will

undress me, slowly removing

layers, revealing skin,

producing my naked body

in the bed where we find time

to explore the magic of

skin on skin.

I am yet standing on the

opposite side of the world,

wondering about food and

bombs and how your eyes met

mine when I last saw you,

how I can fast-forward a year,

how there might be no hope anyway.

I can not give you anything.

I can not stand for anyone but myself

when pits are evolving in my stomach.

Clock

I took a hammer to the back room, behind the

strings of laundry on the clothesline, with a

determination to kill the clock.

For a moment, I held time in my hands; I

owned it, tracing the rounded edge, feeling

its shudder as it tick-ticked.

I'll kiss you in the moonlight if I have to,

if you've lost all hope of meeting the sunlight;

I'll hold you in the evening after light's warmth

has left us, knowing we're fleeting and trite.

You've been gone long enough for me

to miss you, and it hits me like a few pounds

of bricks thrown against my chest unexpectedly.