at night,
dim light,
light of the moon,
not hurried, not sullen,
contemplative,
i swoon.
i write them in pencil,
in case i mistake.
i write them in sweet,
i write them in gray.
a silhouette of all that i feel
i yield,
and let it become real...
i move it thru my hand....
a scratch on the pad,
a memory, a vision,
a thought that i had
and then like an itch
in one foul stroke
i crumble it up,
all that i wrote
i wanted to tell you
about the wind,
and the way it caresses
so many things....
and it reminds me of a way late, late at night
before the dew cracks
and thoughts of night,
to run my hands down the small of your back....
alas....
my hand stops on the page...
and crumbles it up,
to send it away...
each scribbled word,
each uttered ideal.
each shattered world,
each humble appeal.
and lights it on fire,
like a pine-bough in the night,
all faces revealed,
in the flaring of light.
un-uttered, un-heard.
i lost every word,
with the light of a match...
everything i said, burned...
each fumbled sentence revealing a sweetness;
i could not let you catch.
cause i never could send
a thing that i wrote.
so i set them on fire.
each individual note.
