I remember the way your juniper fingers crawled
across my floors flesh, seeking to answer
my dawn.
I recall with eyes fondly the dusk of your scent
like lily brush strokes, questioning the hours
need to go far away.
I dream of the minutes satin veneer, how translucent
were the mollusks we collected on the
cedar patio deck.
I divulge this to you with no clear pearl motives,
merely giving voice to nostalgia with a blue sky.
I feather this ink and let it fan my heart,
gathering solitude like a perfect rose petal,
refined not by memory but by the passing
and still I want it to linger.
If when this ends, the ocean becomes the night sky,
may the stars twinkle blueberry and the wind
whisper only your name.
Kevin Harling.
Ode
O peach destiny like a chorus of longing
cover me with petals of leather shoes
where you once walked,
let me unburden the hours with sweet sounds
of your clumsy footsteps,
hold me in the panels of your scented grains,
let me discover the roots of me in you.
Kevin Harling.
Written
In bold letters of perfection,
scalloped and surging like ink tides
upon your vestige,
lines drawn from a green-eyed kiss,
formatted with a fleshy precision
upon your evening brow.
You the paper that drenches my hands
with the need to examine
the sentences sheen, to uncover
the satin peach of meaning
in the hours beading sound.
I write you, on your geography,
the subtle details of valleys lush
and places where I ache to moor.
You are strawberry canvas in the midst
of my solitude, beckoning me like a siren,
O to touch the threads of your ankles
pinned against my sky.
Kevin Harling.
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