Love is more wicked when wandering by
Have you an ear for the declivitous toneof a womans whisper in the nude of night?
Have you an eye for a clairvoyant sky?
There are moments I wish to quieten
the voices that speak of her leaving,
when, with infidelitous fingers, brushes
gently my pathos, leaving me indisposed.
And when hope becomes that arrogant
trestle, abjuring her advances, I dance.
With myself I dance, through the barriers
of night that had once held me burdened.
The sky is clairvoyant! And gleans her
sapience on the flesh of my mothers.
On the bones of my fathers.
They say that Heaven is delicate, and does
not render fairly the jurisdiction of
humility or the scope of her scorn.
I can only hope they are right.
We shall come together to strike what
remains of our love, like the haggard
blade to a fallow field.
Still, I think of Winter things in the
Spring, and of Summer things in the Fall-
when the murmur of clouds hover harshly
the night.
And still, I have no armor for my regret,
when sourly pangs the night. For I've
painted much of married shore-lines,
but never once had I rendered you.
Now, in the residuum of a winter idle,
when comes resoundingly an April fling
of clicking trees, applauding misfit
breezes, and on boughs; deckle-breasted
divas sing, I rejoice as I should.
And like the filial Lily-sprig to an
afternoon sun, or the hand thats placed
to a red-rifted sky, I reach for that
whisper inviting me home, and curse
every moment since saying goodbye.
For love is more wicked when wandering by.
Poetry by kenneth wertz
Read 551 times
Written on 2007-03-03 at 16:59
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