Friday, September 6, 2013

michael (again)

Look who's back on the doorstep:

that old enigma
that familiar slouch
in scapula, in cardigan,
in burned-out eye-grin
sheepish -- yet
un-apologetic

neck on neck a brief moment
shoulder under clavicle in greeting

through the door, into present
conversation ...
back to table, past ...

I slip elegantly back, the
habits of
those ideas,
compelling as they are
as you are, in first moments
... as anything is, in time; until time.

and sure, the first: "You on painkillers?"
in foot's direction, a small nod

and I explain, "it's
  too much effort
either for you, or for your liver
I don't have time" (or patience, and
I'd have even less time if I did --
him being the catalyst many
wasted evenings, afternoons, days)

"I've spelt my encoding
it lacked warmth
I slept
that was it

but if you want them, they're
yours." Which is
more or less
what I said
in the kitchen
last October
without words

Then it stunk for ages.

my pragmatism suggests
opening drawer, follow through
but I just
close the door, and
go to bed
without goodnight.

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