topotales

snow falls on our home:
white quiets even my sigh.
warm chimney-smoke curls.

Bantam chimera

fleeting in the summer leaves

a redolent wake.

I remember well
our legs under the table,
and the way we kissed.

Fletcher’s paradox:

all is unmoving, still.

Why, then, this chaos?

My perfect lover,
I will let you anything
for all of our lives.

Do you surrender?
“Only to you, my sweet love”.
And then I collapse.

Wanton wraith wrangles
with wauling washy wasteland;
wake’ful, winter wans.

steel origami
watching dark shadows approach;
so easily crushed

Joy Division, of course.

waiting and waiting,
and waiting and waiting for
something: you know?

(Indochine)

wave of colored glass
trapped rawness inside real: one
moment without end

(Bon Iver, The Wolves)