There Isn't Enough of You

There isn’t enough of you in the mould.
Not that I still bank on the liquid gold -
it is only that I notice a power
reducing our eternity to an hour,
long like the lines that spell my sorrows,
long like your lines that tell tomorrows.
When you’re right here, I do not see enough -
enough of you, and it gets really tough
to watch more and more of you getting sold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.

The edges of the leaves I keep in books
shrink into syllables, these little crooks -
every song that I have been beading
into our story is only weeding
out the necessity for meaning -
and the urgency of all feeling
that I contain, that I confess to you.
I’ve now known that no music is true -
pain isn’t sung, hurt remains untold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.

Skull

I do not know if I am within
an insipid hollowness.
Or whether it is I
who contain the frosty skull.

I hear water flow -
blatantly congruous
to the congress of all
that is living.

But all I see is the
inevitable skull,
shorn of its connects,
and colours.

It can never look at me.
And I -
I always choose
to look at it.

Apostrophe

I purge the apostrophe
and shrink into neatness
the curl
that is my gravity.

Curtailed thus,
I find my toes flout at the limit;
there’s a wetness somewhere,
I tell myself.

Suddenly, words reveal plurals
and I slip into the interminable -
dash after dot blur
the poem.

About the Truth

About the truth, it has always been -
about the long road to all feeling.
Is not it what I have asked for, kneeling?
Is not it what has but made me sin?

Rowing my breath down the nothingness,
riding the dwindling presence of it, 
I’ve hunted the truth in every bit.
Scavenger, stooge, scribe, and poetess!

And my own truth that I long to be treasured!
Memories, that now spell differently!
Truth, labyrinthine. Truth, that gently 
reaches you, a snowflake, small, yet measured.

And at times, the truth is only a myth -
lost in its echoes, I die, a wordsmith.

The Illusion of a Horizon

What has vision won for me -
a crisis of blurring shapes?

I witness my tracing what grows
as it goes.

At times, I yearn
to tear these waves off the shore -

wear upon my shivering fingers
these shorn limits.

And then I see my fingers:

they lead me to
lines, lines, lines.

Everything that I am
is the illusion of a horizon.

Futility

I found myself staring
at the death
that hadn't stung our room enough -

a bed pronounced the shock
of the soulless body -
the futility of the shock
of the final claim ...

and I stared
at the wall beyond it.

My mind fled awhile,
invented time -

time to word
an obituary,
time to sheet the silenced
note -

time to tidy
every tiny memory of ours
that boated within me.

In this trying I forgot
that I would soon forget
what I was trying to correct.

When I have only Asking to Offer

When I have only asking to offer -
return, a God who listens to my pleas.
As I reveal this heart, a cracked coffer,
seize it all with your arms, give it your knees.

When questions hook my breath, unchain it -
when memories kite me and I soar
upon the nothing, find me and claim it -
claim the barren ground, claim the empty core.

Face my eyes, walk them towards the corner
where I worship you in newer hymns,
where I, all my infinity garner -
lead me where the world and its light, dims.

Walk me to any receding corner 
when I’ve nothing but asking to offer.