Of the Cave

Ah, right. So. I don't know quite how it happened, but I actually managed to get about 10 poems out this evening. Which, fuck, is astonishing. I suspect that a certain number of them are far too personal to post, but a few of them, I think, i shall put up.

I would almost suggest that someone is slipping me some kind of euphoric creative drug, if I didn't know better. (Or maybe Tran is just far more subtle than I give him credit for...)

Here's a bit of a taste of what I've managed today:


Could it be possibly that I am
All of you and learn everything that you learn,
And grow and know and am all of your entire experience?

I think, honestly, it possible, for as I age,
As I become more and more and see and change,
I feel as if I am recovering from lack,
Or learning the lost,
That I once knew in my
Bones.

--


I should pull my threads closer, and
Wrap myself with the questing tendrils that
Seek the cracks in you,
For every reaching pulls me apart,
And diminishes my haphazardly constructed
Framework (a labour of fears and reason).
For all of that, I cannot forbid the drift
If you call it.

--


A clean slate, I think, is far from possible
Considering all that has past.
I simply desire a favourible palimpsest,
Retaining all inherent beauty, sincerity and
Full, shining devotion.

--

With weights in each hand, you maintain the
Carefullest of balances,
Tipping gently when needed.
Yet, you list unremittingly to
Your preferred angle.

--

I've flipped through a multitude of combinations
Yet I cannot pinpoint the delicate roil of water in cup,
Nor the forkfuls of simple provender
Which bespeak a languid mindfulness,
A burnished, inherent tenderness.