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February 4, 2013


Call me Ahab.
Call me Ishmael.
Pursuivant and pupil.
Of our white whale.
Here’s my flood.
And here’s my fluke.
My perversion and polemic.
Of our short tale.

That night I took your hand.
And wasn’t that night so very long?
Falling about each other like jaded lovers.
So I held you to me, as much as I could do.
There in that moment the darkness was drawn.
Back into the waking sky.
Even that which darkens darkest.
In the hour before the dawn.
You and I taking from it.
All its black and agonizing heat.
And the sun outside beat down like a heart in love.
Desiccating all, its idiot beauty.
The breeze threw through the open window.
Peace upon passion and pinioned its rolling thunder.
Caught the lights that lit the night and blew them through the day.
Cool air and cool harbour.
We sheltered from the sky and future.
From each other, in a way.
The imperfect people beyond this second.
Laying naked in our arbor.
The sky above the boughs as blue.
As the meeting of our eyes.
It tripped across the rooftops.
And fell into our arms.
It’s true, I cannot say I loved you.
In that morning, golden, fleeting.
But I loved you later, and love you now.
More fiercely than I loved that day.


From → Poetry

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