Ragged Claws

Could I love you,
if I had no memory
of breathing skin,
of weight, or time, or matter?

(Close to counting
creases in the sheet
that covers way too much of you)

Perfect as the instinct
and the courage
of the painter’s first
and lasting stroke;

(Wide awake now,
caught by morning lust
and light, I watch)

silent as the forest,
in between the lightning
and the first few swollen drops
of rain to hit the upper leaves:

(I do not touch you, yet
I feel each particle of dust,
caught in fever flight)

Could I love you,
if I had no eyes
to feast upon your flesh,
no words to call you beautiful?

This entry was posted on Monday, June 29th, 2009 at 12:16 am and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.