Words Ripened In The summer's Breath

I'm a sigh in a dark chant
The night's pupil in an abstract gaze
closely snuggled with words
out of a Colm Toïbin's world.

I'm an audacious
yet mellow sigh
in the breath of a perfect stranger's
hollow, cavernous desire
expressed in words
that are unborn
unconnected, unsought
sailing on a yellow wave
from the heart to the toes
and through that stranger's street
where they nestle in the cracks
in between old bricks paving the road
like colourful unknown flowers
patching the monotonous green
of a well groomed garden
visible only
to gifted eyes
able to sweep the scarce, unlighted
disheartening spaces.

Words that are bold and juicy
like crimson figs
from undefined faraway places
missing in dictionaries
but persistently hang
in the young summer's breath
slowly ripening
among myrtle growing in marshes
or in between promiscuous café tables
on which old friends exchange confidences
with overtones of news in brief.

Words that were safely tucked away
under the wood panels
of a bed room.
Then came an icy winter
crying out for hearth fire
that burned down the panels
exhibiting the words underneath
on cold concrete walls
now ready
to be fiercely expressed
without the help of summer staples.


A whole slew of words
swarming on the sweaty skin
of prurient bodies
within the tips of the fingers
yet moving
in the yonder
and resisting
to be framed
in a nonsense poem
or any other twaddle.


Words
inhabiting the guest house in me
where I gather them together
in the fading light of drizzly evenings
to play a vivid and sometimes cruel game
endlessly through the night
and the morning's light wrap haggard faces
both mine and theirs
so unexpectedly
that I let them run loose
once again
in the realm of untamed
while the world focuses
on getting up on its feet
and someone somewhere in the world
has already composed
a gentle love poem

"I love you and the ground
you walk upon."

Words whose beauty
is defined by the unreachable
by distance and parting
and the tears that are
an intellectual thing.
words that are intruder
into the intimacy of others
desultory words
trying to regain
over life's putrefaction
all the while knowing
that the day's impression
and the night's perception
are not resumed in poetry
but in good mornings
and good nights
from strangers
in the obscure gaze of whom
are sunk
redundant words
like fragments in a poem
hang to the sighs
in the sorrowful chants
in the abyss of tears
in the depths of eyes
glazed by the drizzle
of an ending summer
and I'm for ever
snuggled in them.

Flora