if we shadows

Caught in the rage and the fire of things
All the brightness that burns me
I'm fumbling through like a child in the dark
When the nakedness comes
I am shocked by the colour the glorious weight of your skin
Comes alive
And I never thought we'd make it back so soon
Might be nice
But I knew you'd be your own destroyer
Comes a time
And I always thought I'd make it up to you

Here please forgive me
Could we escape all the bitterness piled upon bitterness
Held in the face of the things that I don't understand
Intellectualize over and over
This helplessness suits us
Funny how quiet has slipped to our corners
Worn all our edges away
You are watching breathing and baiting
Wanting and warming and cautiously waiting
For some simple signal to creep cross your conscience
Uncover redemption and oh did I mention
I carried you down to the St. Lawrence River
The banks running dirty the water's beginning to freeze here
Solid by morning
And I'll freeze here
Winter by morning

half the night i waste in sighs,
half in dreams i sorrow after
the delight of early skies;
in wakeful dose i sorrow
for the hand, the lips, the eyes,
for the meeting of the morrow,
the delight of happy laughter,
the delight of low replies.

tennyson

Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow
flat on the wall.
The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.
You had not expected this,
the bedroom gone white, the astronomical light
pummeling you in a stream of fists.
You raised your hand to your face as if
to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light
streamed straight to the bone,
as if you were the small room closed in glass
with every speck of dust illuminated.
The light is no mystery,
the mystery is that there is something to keep the light
from passing through.

—Richard Siken, “Visible World”

i stay unseen by the light
i stay untold by the truth

p.griffin

swift as a shadow
short as any dream
brief as the lightning
in the collied night

WS- MSND

i was the shadow of the
waxwing slain
by the false azure
of the window pain

nabokov, pale fire

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.

-bukowski