surrounded by perfume,
sighs and thighs
probably, properly, destiny
not to be
a semblance of romantic
interspersed with
fucking antiseptic Coptic
bliss—in your world
fingers wishing for
the “come-hither” in pairs
holding breath, rhythm
frantic with purpose
joyously sparse and
instructive terrain

and him
and you

like a set of 2x4s
swords, boards
clapping and rusting
at the nails
that enclose this
pine box
on a tiny evening
over here on this side.

© Tom Watters  11/10/07

she dances in the sun’s light
never tanning herself

she is a mirror at the
slightest angle.
providing the greatest
reflection
not blinding with
the glare of judgment
or the braggadocio of triumph

you try to read her Braille
and in return you are read

a mirror that shows a
familiar gentle angle
a pulsing dance
vibrating soft messages
of calm and care
instructions that are
revelatory–not admonishment

you will hear her song
surely you have heard it in yourself

it mirrors what others have
almost said to your face
sweet, melancholy and modal
a time signature
impossible to pinpoint, yet
it will remind you to chorus
all your finest attributes

as she leaves
she leaves behind

you adjust your rearview mirror
slightly at an angle
hoping to catch one more look
as if that will suffice
you breathe your lungs full, so full
begging that her smell
will never leave your car

© Tom Watters  12/4/06

I sing from ignorance
a plaid expression
in a black and white world

sad that this
is not the typical
delusion or miscalculation

happy that there are
no meds to fix
this simpleton’s void

blissful (heartless)
joyless (brainless)
the way it was (is)

a shot in the
dark alley at night
heartache with the scent of Paris

my meager vision
penciled in like a casualty.
triage deemed quaint, like remorse

other skus have
replaced the hand crafted;
monks into machines

no slang for this
or warnings posted
just a freak ice storm

not passing soon

© Tom Watters  10/29/07

a jade glow from
the flat screen produces
product of memory
falls lightly like aerosol
I think of your eyes,
countless petty thefts
longing in that calm color

sleepless and dim
my window breathes
with the scent of a pepper tree
your hair close
and spicy with
the same slight perfume
proffered miles away

the warm satin of
your skin, kneading
lithe sinew in your body
I listened to your heartbeat
while you slept once
it was my favorite song
absently tracing my lips

fields of negative space
make pictures in the plains
your waist and thighs
landscapes of you
painted in my recounting
pthalo blue and burnt sienna
powdering nights like these

© Tom Watters  10/19/07