THE LAUGHING BONE‎ > ‎WORD‎ > ‎POETRY‎ > ‎

Seven Times Desire

The Mystery of Time: 
Lost love caught within 
The pages of a book, 
Memories given numbers, 
All those years folded under... 

Roses pressed and roughly cut,
Open now like wounds,
Vulnerable to every hour,
Bruised sorrowing separations, 
Dry and bloodless and aching... 

This binds us, this blood, 
This pageless ecstasy. 
We turn over these years, 
Wishing like a coin tumbling in water, 
Down to the deep embraces of...

Be it by stick or stone
Our broken bones, 
Our words alone
Our marginal compromises,
Forever covers us
With this shivering shame of...

The pages are always increasing 
The losses of each memory, 
These thread-bound spines
Stretching, separating, scattering,
The million gathered moments of...

Now that my face is worn away...
These empty inward eyes
Will gaze forever upon the page,
Where the dust of a single memory,
Traces fading designs of...

Still the rose is still unfaded 
Still found between the burning pages, 
Dawning down on ancient faces,
The bones are breathing in the stars 
In silent bloomings of

Desire.



1991 - Extensive revision 2007