WIde Eyed And Grip Tight

I awoke pupils wide and grip tight

Enough words on my mind

Central to the vision of fantasy’s reach

You, me, crevice and down

This is the belief in the poet’s morning fiction

Can love’s curve sharpen to a point?

Draw tight and tingle at the touch?

What are you God of?

Who leaves you white salutations at the coming of the day?

With blank paper muscles fleeced with hair

Can I believe in you?

I awoke tangled up in landscapes of darkness

Pulled apart and ready to devour

Tasted with the tongue of youth

And flesh grabbed at with fingers of pleasure

Pupils wide and grip tight

I heard a music

A music of distant confusion

Not terrifying, no, though it was unsettling

As though someone had finally sharpened love’s curve

And surrendering what we had fought for

To the ocean’s gravely floor

Where no poet can offer a compassionate funeral

For the idea of you, me, crevice and down

So I awoke

Here in a room with a window and watercolour

My pupils wide, my grip tight

The taste of salt upon my lips

And I thought of you, the idea of love’s curve

What a curse it is to know of these things!

And yet, I still dwell in the shadow

Hunting down that stag

Forever hearing the echo of its hooves

Run across the ocean’s gravely edge

Forever, wide eyed and grip tight