04-08-2017, 01:42 AM
(A bit of a cheat before I go on vacation. As I was writing something I kept hitting on themes I'd written about in a poem a few years back. I decided to rearrange the strophes and do some edits. I'll come back later and try something new when I return).
When It Ended
In the indistinct gray light,
no particular bird was singing.
Our kiss
was like a postmark
on a letter from people
we no longer knew.
I felt the itch
of your lips.
You spoke of that place
you’d read about,
something about mangos,
some island somewhere,
which you might like to visit,
and then root canals and laundry,
groceries and endless
soccer games.
We drank a tasteless Shiraz
in that trendy café on Union,
chewing words like stale bread.
When It Ended
In the indistinct gray light,
no particular bird was singing.
Our kiss
was like a postmark
on a letter from people
we no longer knew.
I felt the itch
of your lips.
You spoke of that place
you’d read about,
something about mangos,
some island somewhere,
which you might like to visit,
and then root canals and laundry,
groceries and endless
soccer games.
We drank a tasteless Shiraz
in that trendy café on Union,
chewing words like stale bread.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson