tenuous at the wick
you still left a pool
molten wax and
unanswered want ads
personals circled rather roughly

you loved me
for my words

my significance
idealized in a flash-card
practice of sorts
reminder that there
are “these” out there

with brighter whites
and bolder colors

silk will wear well
in these years, yes
clutch this memory
reverberant sounding board
of hard tack

a good novel
no illustrations, please

so yes, I am proud of you
your pennants dancing
brightly in crisp gales
the wake of your forgetting
will curiously instill some in me

© Tom Watters  10/17/07

surface resplendent
golden flecks of mica
tease underneath worn,
wrinkled foot-pads

boring internal fires sizzle,
sputter into composure
dangle results in the face
of fear, cold, and envy

these shores hear pleas
welcome new lust
chase homeward
horses of discord

pure is the result
of equal motive
the jagged rock transformed
into a sensuous touchstone

building a fortress
impenetrable, yet yielding
divine with the color of passion
light without heat

© Tom Watters  10/11/07

need visited last night
she presented a marketing campaign
shifting shapes freely
ignoring my brand allegiances
I felt wanted again

taking form as a house,
dark sunglasses, an umbrella
something she could hold onto
when her lover withdrew
behind his dark secret curtain

I was hungry
she presented herself
as a red apple
wearing the mask of original sin
savoring irony in each bite

void of actual sweat
she made her entrance
as a bouquet of fragrant blooms
immediately began her fade
while marking territorial pages

temporal is the shape of need
typed in low-res eight point
she sent the word love
through digital static
this emotion became both

she disappeared, sated
back in the arms
of her vane morphine

no need, for now

© Tom Watters  10/6/07

honey, this syrup of time
slowly savored by the spoon
rapture
and cinema of events to come

joy that has
harnessed the benefits
of independence
and comfort with
wonder for the unfolding

released from the cliche of invocation
or the sing-song the way it always has been
freedom from the call and response
and eye for an eye

assimilation into
what has been laid out
is an arranged marriage of sorts
beige fabric being told that it is
the reddest red.

passion exists
without warfare
but not without air

its release is proportionate to
the time deliciously
or maliciously spent
creating the honey
of its play

© Tom Watters  10/5/07