I wait in the interstice of us
Argus-eyed and protective
As we sleep in this bricolage house.
I can see the red of your lips, dripping
Slipping is more like it
Unlike a dream, this anachronism of process
Like a faulty machine,
with a faded expiration.
Drenched in your color
I linger incessantly
Saturated with the smile
That's spread so slender
It's meaning is formless,
It's author anonymous
The puzzle unsolved.
A mason's shame
To remain in abstract eye
That in a lunar cycle's time,
A single brick effaced
Allowing winter's wrath a face
And my lips, a flavor
Of cold solitude in your kiss' place.
Is it a fruitless struggle for structure?
Tomorrow I'll embrace
The unknown sides with patience.
Urbane and unspoken I'll be
Even if this house should tumble
Let this be my fait accompli.
