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Home » High Critique » Untitled #412

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9/21/2012 4:36:11 PM

Bernhard Bruhnke
Posts: 3
This bed was never meant for conquest

or desire.

Just for the voice of the humble Sunday rain;

watching every exquisite drop bubble and scatter across the sun-chiseled paint

of the window seal.

A vision as comfortable as laughter.

A moment as humble as regret.




Each echo sighs across the weeping glass with a panegyrical glow of cream

and juniper

that melts through the ecru reflection of light onto the cool

silence of our room.

Where your voice of the evening phainopepla

would choir

your golden flamenco,

and saturate our every touch with a moonlight cavatina.

A voice that saturates my memories; begging to be re-created.




Only the air would quietly witness our thoughts unloosen

and nestle to the floor,

wading,

like a memory.

Like your auburn hair...

rinsing

down

my body.




And as your eyes condone to their slumber,

I lie watching each hollow whisper leave a kiss to the soaking

wind chime;

leaving a shadow to grace the window,

leaving an army of veils and serpents.




We sink into the sheets and a cocoon of blankets

melt over my simple legs,

my furious feet.

Even at rest they never stop searching for the world.

My mammoth toes

dancing with the lazy bronze strings of my grandmother's quilt

and its frontier of wool;

dangling like the

drowsy willow from its heavenly mast.

My poor exhausted pillows.

So many evenings holding my thoughts,

my heavy dreams.

I stack them like sorrows,

like a tower of clouds,

dressed in horizontal streams and soft avenues of teal.

My timid face

buried in their aching cushion

while my mouth stumbles open,

revealing the poem sleeping under my bottom lip.




And the dry wind churns through each room,

throughout the rattled ingredients of night

to rise in the warm pastry of morning.

Crowded with memories,

flaked with shadows.




This bed was never meant for conquest or desire,

but for the drowsy sunrise

that stemmed through the fragile wooden blinds.

The cool spring mist that smuggled through the open window

and hushed in the smell of chrysanthemums and the evening fireplace.




You were still wearing my arms and a red blanket,

as the day married your ivory face

with a boquet of light.

My hands slowly navigating

down your golden spine,

while

your fingers were nibbling behind my silly ears.

And as your eyes began to harvest,

your greet me with an immeasurable kiss.




A kiss that crumbles cities.

A kiss that evaporates the moon.

A kiss that turns men into hummingbirds.
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