The following poetry was forwarded to me from an unknown source. The name of the poet was not disclosed, thus if there is a chance that the author of the two poetry below is reading this, please email me.
~The Fringe~
It astonishes me somehow
that when I run my hand
through your hair I cannot find
the remnants of a parting.
And yet you told me of how
your mother had combed your hair
to one side and shaped a crest,
half an ebony conch, collapsible
chrysalis you smoothed out by
the time you turned twelve. I know
it cannot be counted as a betrayal,
even though the hands that shaped
your fringe against gravity,
against the very nature of your hair
could be those of a potter
who leaves a piece of herself
in the moulding of her work:
the handprint deliberately
designed not to look
like a handprint.
I also know you do not entertain
the idea of a denunciation
as you replaced your sullen fringe
with spikes, and bangs (such violence),
that nothing was severed as the barber's
electric shears orbited your head.
But sometimes as you take me into
your mouth I cannot help but wonder
if you had your fringe removed so it
would not crash against my groin;
spoiling some memory of embroidery, some
spidery icing; the beloved heirloom.
~Fort Road Impressions~
At this hour many things will pass by you.
I am speaking of sighs and bicycle bells.
Here the dark swallows all points of light:
the ships perforating the horizon, the condominiums'
identical grids, the cyan glow
of a restless boy's watch.
Where the tree bends like a shattered hand
a man has undressed to his red shorts
and you will never know if that is dew or sweat
or moon-varnish on his skin unless he is licked.
There was never such a time he felt more loved
than when he had hollows in his cheeks
and fingers in his hair.
It is not a matter of what I seek, I am running away
from the source of my running away.
How can I explain it but by the act
of two feet walking to the edge of the sea?
Our nakedness clothes us from judgement.
Shoeprints and wheel treads in the mud.
There are strangers here who know my secrets.
Down where the grass dips the bushes were shivering.
The scentless mimosa unfurls its plumes
to what was the obscene shrine of a kiss--
elbows buckling against a chest,
the whining delirium and the brute echo.
Its mute thorns were useless against flesh.
This is it, where the waves return,
carrying carcasses of angels
or what was phosphorescent once.
His hand climbs up from under my shirt
and pinches what it has found there.
When I say the word 'love' here
The sea-wind crushes it against my mouth.
We will never wash ourselves in the ocean, like this.
There are grains of sand in the folds of his skin.
The cold behind his ears have the taste of oblivion.
If a shadow has its shadow then I am one.
Please sign my Guestbook, thank you.
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