I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.
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Comments
-
but
they will not
give her back to me
this poem is destroying me.. -
he was the last person she saw before dying... he's one of the most beautiful people to ever live. he was more real than most..
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to see buk write of love.......how deeply he did love amidst him being an ass...goes to show we all love deeply even when we dont show it...every last one of us....god damn guy....god rest his soul if it can be at rest at all....
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Ahhh he should have taken a chance when he could.. Thanks Jude for pointing me in this direction.. Great steamy stuff here.. almost tangible to the touch..
~GILL~xxx
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