the hidden track

 

there is a small tendril of
fire licking the back of my hand,

there is a wave of the sea coming
from under the door,

the rushing in my ears,
the sounds of

another world
coming through the basement wall

the basement
a metaphor of our subconscious

my hands are wet with
desire

we have still not
taken that long, slow step

not closed the window against winter,
have not spoken the truth

on the B side
backwards

you speak
to a rising pulpit

through the tall grass,
the empty field, dark

and forgiving.
I never wanted it to end this way,

on a sudden
misunderstanding

the way the numbers on the clock slow,
no second hand here

just the waiting

for the sun to breach the arms of the earth
rise free into the sudden blue sky

the stars shivering
and winking away