A VICTORY NONETHELESS (for e.)

i)   it is a misty Sunday morning,

                here,

     under this mountain.

                So much to see,   

                through

                these swinging glass doors,

                draped in wrinkled, white cotton-

      I turn on the plump, blushing sofa,

                contemplating coffee grinds

                and the wavering blinds

                that cover the green morning from

                these red eyes, contemplating the distance,

                                                hangover size.

ii)    I actually saw you for a moment

                with me

                and while it brought me near to delirium

                  in my part, my player,

                   and kneel, I

   can still think of it as a victory nonetheless.

                I see you on the bed,

                   soft, and I don’t even want

                     to kiss you

                but just to look

                  as a calm, slow yawn in the world’s face.

                (because this is much better than love babe this is a crush story)

                Because it feels--

                My eyes enjoy watching

                you

                cut against the air,

                your arms quick contrast

                to the ground...

ii)

                here is another.

                you and I,

                   see.

                We take off our socks and smile.

                The grass is warm with

                  the earth pushing

                   up and

                we lay back

                    and fall to

                   meet it. 

                             --I concede a smile.

                              would you have one too?

                                 I think it would befit you.

iv)

                      an interlude.

                     silent on the couch,

                   but I don’t blame myself.

                It’s a victory nonetheless.

v)

                   Quick:

                    it wouldn’t be more of the same

                    it would be more at all.

                    it would just be.

                But these arms won’t hold you.

                    and the knowledge scratches against me.

                So,

                one more glance at you,

                sleeping porcelain goddess, and      

                  step out onto the porch,

                into this foggy Sunday morning,

                under this mountain,

                and

                                breathe  

                                                in today

                for

                   all of the pain it might bring,

                and silently laugh,

                  victorious,

                in the bright wild sunshine of dawn.

                At least I have lived.