Wednesday, August 27, 2008

accidental arrows

I don't know what to do
she said
and maybe it was a fact
or a story
or something in a book somewhere
she could have heard on the radio
in a wandering song
or watched it fall from the redlined lips
of a famous star decked in sparkle
but she said it with a little shrug
that was totally and deliciously hers
and it undid him
left him tumbling head first down
over concrete stairs and brick walls
up the strands of ivy below her window
around glass doors and along the edges of sidewalk
that let him be by her side
he was a man of bone and sinew
and his sister would claim 
that his heart was solely concerned
with the careful distribution of blood
cautiously. neither in want nor surplus
thats what she would swear
but then she didn't recognize him
that midnight meeting
when with hair disheveled and hands deep in pockets
he whirled past her in a storm of lovers woe
and she walked on with the strange feeling
that that was a man she knew
or had met once
perhaps in a store 
or at a show somewhere
and he did not see her at all
but wandered on in a haze of names and faces
when only one was carved into his consciousness 
and that small little curve of her shoulders
that he could find in Grand Central Station
without a second thought
and on and on in a blur of moments
while she went on her way
with that delightful delicious shrug of the shoulders
and a pearly toothed smile

The world could have watched in wonder
had it not been spinning
from the delicate force 
of a small lift of shoulders 
and a smile that shook the stars

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

window views
of pastel worlds
no water touches,
smudges here.
pressed to the glass,
I wanted to ask
when i glanced at my hands
and my square shadow-frame.
maybe its math
or maybe its time,
growing old
just too cold
for the pastel world.

Chiastych said...

advanced.

H.M., now I know: you are a poet.

This is close to pushcart prize.

thearchitects said...

undid him.

with the curve of his hunched. dejected shoulders.
he waits. with soft half-dead. eyes. somber. slowly reeling in the mad tilted spin.

and then. that delicate delicious.
arrives slowly with a tip. and his alive eyes. march thier way across his face.