13 Sep 2011

Do not resuscitate

Another love falls ill
loses its colour
its will

We had so many tomorrows;
tomorrow I will call to say I’m sorry
tomorrow I will write you a poem
that will steal your heart.

Tonight I lie in a pool of blue light
where the silver moon last cried
all tomorrows spent (unwise)

Flowerless this desire for you,
feral this rootless longing

If you find it between your hands again
don't resuscitate this porous heart of mine.