Disordered Well, At Best

The night’s
solemnity calls out in
feeble mews,
like the bare-wood
chapel pews,
softly moan.


I present myself
a gift to you,
do partake
in my body,
the song of a thrush,
calls out your name.


In suppressed sighs
I hold this night,
a child holding
sand in his fist
on a crowded beach,
drifting figures, moments.


His mother takes his
hand, unclenched,
the sand
falls away, and
in this night’s solemnity,
the present has no taste.


                        …the tight knob of your dresser is so tightly shut,
                           while mine is loose, it spins and wobbles,
                                      like drunken feet on steady ground,
                           open the drawer, your clothes, how neatly packed,
                           and mine? if they find their way back,
                                      are disordered well, at best…