in progress

okay... so this is what i'm working on currently... no title and no end... but here it be:

We leave these moments unfinished,
like sketches for a painting: deep tongue kisses
of graphite stranded like waves of a dead ocean,
now just sand and heat on bare white paper.

Notice the use of space,

the bone structure of hands…
fingers crossing like the legs of first time lovers
reaching blindly, finding themselves
not alone, so gloriously not alone
in the half light of dawn,

how the page begs for color,
for flesh to drape across this milky
skeleton, like canvas covering wind,
like lungs given shape by breath,
like a lover becoming blood,
pulsing in your ears after a rough night’s sleep,

how the small gouges taken from the skin of the page
might remind you of Jackson Pollock, cigarette trembling
(with what could be a caffeine buzz) from his mouth,
paint mixed with shards of glass tumbling from the open vein
of the bucket in his hands, in the moments before the scrape
and the scratch, the terrible gentleness of the trowel
and the knife, the desperate precision of a derailed train
jumping back on its track,

were you so inclined, to think that way.