the fog

if i could speak to you
in clear conversational terms
i wouldn’t need to convert this
into poetic induction

but a man builds a ship
this ship sinks to become
an artificial reef out of which
a current love will grow

I lean on my memory of you
as my reef; the awkward
flower you are, the piece of
time with unspoken secrets

once ago when my words would
have melted in your breasts
when my breath would have
smeared your lip gloss
when your sweat would have
trickled down your back at
the touch of a noon meeting,
we look at those summers
asking ‘Where have they gone?’
surprised; ‘What could have been
immortalized?’

some charms never travel
their length; some words are
kept in case we must one day
make good with what we missed

some letters are lost, other
memories fade, some wishes
b’come stranded, some ships
sail, some gulls fly beyond the bank

soon we see some films which
remind us of our dreams, soon
we have dreams like some films

i remember the shore, like fog
i remember the fog soon enough
nothing but the fog i’ll remember

women

So much of who we are is our remaining-in or shackling-out of our upbringing.

So many women I have met who camouflage a sensitive, vulnerable, emotional expression of themselves with irony. In fact, I knew this great woman once who could spit out basic wonderful life truths, but who in most instances, had to offset the purity with a nonchalant over-the-top artificial excitement. She still does this to this day. And I had a chance to touch her once, but the sheer fear within her made her reject me.

But I also know some great women who are so pure in their self-pity I find them immediately charming. Excluding my mother, the count is four. We will make films together.