Read Poems by
Blame it on Midnight
To be loved by despair remains imperfect
those same aches, cuts and alarms
heal when redemption's hour chimes;
and laughing children scatter each
to their warm, safe, half lit homes.
The day forgotten, remembered no more.
To be loved by need fulfills only the
moment at hand, a hard candy on the tongue
dissolving into the dark corridors of elimination,
finally free to return to the dust from which
they came. Needs change.
Fill my cup with Saturday's sultry dark
and we'll paint on black velvet where
our love leaves the mark of our conjoining,
our mingling moments, our ferocious fire.
Sunday mornings crosswords and comics
are the dream, the afterglow of love
imperfectly drawn from an old well.
"Hey! Watch where you're going...
Step light on old toes..." (Bob Seger)