so dark
was it morning or night
tangled up in sheets
it suddenly didn’t matter
he pressed forward
she was swallowed in warmth
their best work was done here
in the murky time
the pitchest black dawn
imprinting their stories
on skin
plot twists
and rhymes
spelled out with such flourish
new chapters and verses
discovered
with each brush of skin
slipping through the covers
in and out of sleep
good night, good morning
writing interrupted
life interrupts the pen
glorious, maddening
how to take the sensations
put them into words
when there were no words
for the best parts
merely grunts and groans
then eyes wide
and quiet
back to the pen
are there rhymes
for such times
go in
she showed up
stood outside the door
the alley was dark, damp
a streetlight flickered around the corner
pushing long shadows up the wall beside her
she had but to turn the rusty knob
and she’d be inside
taking in the sights and sounds
people, art, life
what was stopping her
she was stuck
feet rooted to the floor
hands hanging limply at her sides
just turn the knob
go in
Line Reading
do you have a moment
or two
to read some lines with me
I want to hear
what the poet meant
when he said
“Oh, how I crave thee”
and if it’s not asking
far too much
could we read
some more
I’d love to hear
“how I need thee”
and maybe a bit more
still night
in the still, quiet of night
they finally can breathe deep
darkness settles over them like a blanket
no moon to shine a light on troubles
he takes the questions from the edge of her lips away
she forgets to wonder or worry
they take comfort together
their world a small, dark space
they hold all they need between their locked arms
there may be battles brewing all around
but somehow they remain sheltered
chaos erupts in the day
over and over again
but their pure, impossible need
wipes all else from view
it’s so very quiet
so very still
if this night could last
but then they thought no more
and surrendered
The Word Rummager 