Afterglow

Afterglow by Michael R. Burch for Beth The night is full of stars. Which still exist? Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know. For now I hold your fingers to my lips and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ... once slow to match this reckless spark in me, this moon in ceaseless orbit I became, compelled by wilder gravity to flee night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ... for one pale flame that seemed to signify the Zodiac of all, the meaning of Love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie in dawning recognition is enough ... enough each night to bask in you, to know the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane; she nestled my head to her breast and breathed upon my insensate lips the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs, the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . . Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . . She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . . She anointed my lips with her soft lips’ dews; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night. The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard. Star Crossed by Michael R. Burch Remember— night is not like day; the stars are closer than they seem ... now, bending near, they seem to say the morning sun was merely a dream ember. The State of the Art (?) by Michael R. Burch Has rhyme lost all its reason and rhythm, renascence? Are sonnets out of season and poems but poor pretense? Are poets lacking fire, their words too trite and forced? What happened to desire? Has passion been coerced? Shall poetry fade slowly, like Latin, to past tense? Are the bards too high and holy, or their readers merely dense?