all.day.every.day
/
love as
accessory:
shall I be an adorning
piece of furniture in your life,
or the house in which you place it?
I’d like to
be seen from
every angle
or, when not seen,
felt.
I’d like to be your dwelling,
meanwhile you
rustle things up in the kitchen
(walls surrounding are also me;
sink, counter—me)
to not face the mess
and to remain good;
and in order to maintain
the Universal perspective
you remain half God-conscious;
I can’t forget that,
or forgive it,
but also,
can’t
forget you:
so i teeter-totter
between no and yes.
Mostly it’s yes:
to the chalk-mud which forms you and
ex-zoo’ds every
perfect fray-grant
fair-oh-moan
Fellini wanted us all to know that
life ought to be lived spherically, in
(many) directions.
The only way to do this
is to live love
all.day.every.day
(for one love gives way
to another love gives way
to distraction or
dysfunction or
play,
in-tocs-
sick-K-ted and
all-at-once).
Most of
my last decade’s love
grew taciturn
from distance &
neglect.
I don’t regret that, but
if very still, I see i’m sad.
Shift, unmask,
shift
again,
shift, shift—
appropriate gear
at last:
your words
and the negative space of you
(which you don’t ask me to fill,
but which i impose upon freely,
boots stomping over critics):
my stage to be, fully, me;
I’ve selected my final audience.
It could have been any number of people,
but you were the only
silent killer
(lion-hearted)
whom i managed to halt
with my own euthanasia.
Meanwhile, patiently,
the daily dance:
the watching, fumbling,
striving—
coffee by morning
tea by night—
hollow memory in between—
or silence
our productivity reduces us to.
My wanting has grown,
for everything real and good.
'cause i still want to eat the world,
and so long as you're in it,
that includes you.
You shine brightly again
and confuse me with your glare
which, bisecting mine,
sends it outward
spherically, reaching
for more
of the meat (ironic)
of the filling (ironic)—
and I fill
the mold
for the walls of your dwelling
(and your sinks
and your doors
and your countertops)
which keep you mine,
but also provide the heavy excuse
for your freedom,
your escape.
your escape.
© erika s. haines 2014
