The Story Garden 5.0
Poetry
After Hosiery
I am a terrible storyteller: what goes unsaid
and assumed for as long as i've been in love
with anyone (and everyone that I have)
is I am without you
not myself.
These evening vespers infect us
as the moon changes our world
from starch to sugar--the lubricated
gearing of constellations; the stopwatch
efficiency of abandoned clothes:
exhalation precedes inhalation.
Passion, in her maturity gets more
sleep having compromised insouciance
for security, that the size of our bed
has grown giving temperament of love
room to stretch or stray
I know the importance of your footfall
up stairs and the dizziness of forgetting
who is doing what to whom.
--Kenneth L. Clark
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