Saturday As The Library Closes

I want to know:

How you smell uncologned
with sweat on your body
when the time table of life dims
to where the space is
between the words that
spill over
where we can meet.
And in that meeting
know you/me
know me in you
you in me.
Maybe, that space
says nothing
or something
or silence
that hears,

Because there are
people with worse
stories that sting
their life’s music–
we both know
that the words
don’t tell it deep enough.
I want someone to hear
the spaces between
the notes
and not get stuck
on words or form
or past lies and detours.
Someone I can say the
truth to
who will sit beside
my soul
and want to know
its journey
and not get stuck
in my misgivings
but will open their door
to the rooms they live in,
and say, I know that road
you walked on
I recognize the trees
the scent of pine
needles and cones
shed across the floor.

Yes, when the line winds came
there was that tree uprooted
and sprawled out on the ground
I crossed over it on my journey too.
And death took some to young
to even know their road
or what street they crossed.

Its true my heart is ripe to be kissed
with wine–I am pressing the grapes
pounding them with my feet
blistered and tired
just a moment before eternity
that’s all we have, you know.

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