Afternoons

It’s not a need for death, but sleep:
without the cuts of waking up
against the heat of endless days;
us dragging broken lives over
tangled ill intent and lies.
Woken hours adore hot sun,
break bread and share red wine,
sweat in folds of satin sheets,
glow in ink of short regrets
left tied under scented pillows—
afternoons shed minutes singly.
Cool rain diffuses day-end hues;
attempts sedation with a fugue
but cleans and polishes the pain.

Drag me up the talus slope
so rocks can scrape away my sins
as dry old skins of past regrets.
I’ll leave nights of brambled moons,
wake in rough-hewn afternoons;
walk in pain but breath in billows.

For a friend.

 

May 2014

 

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