e. n.

this morning,
my dream sleeps,
beneath my comforter

i in disbelief
across the room
on a bamboo chest
taking new breath.

her eyes closed,
smile dripping off the sheets
rushing oer the ground

i am drowned.

no ships pass by where i sink,
no possibility of a saviour exists

do i mind

this fruit hanging on its stem,
not yet ready to fall on its own

into the things it has sought...

soil manifest tree.


In time of flood,

no steady ground,
only sinking sledges of sliding mud
ripping hillside
tearing gaps into private properties

opening the chasm whose fault line was known
but whose voice had never before been heard.

Too many applications running
too many tabs on firefox
too many instant messengers....

no space for intention
only very few words...

left with my breath in her hair...
................................
her poem would have to simmer
for years
low fire
a constant low bubble....

her scent would have to soak soul
torment on mention
torch on touch

the many signposts
of our connectivity

pre-requisite for our lost opportunity

we had to court a twisted plot
and secret friendships,
that open softly like oysters into wetness...

in a world where too many butterflies
are just enough.