her reflection
in the glare of the morning’s
window glass
caught mine and smiled
angelic in the coarse patois of my dream

on olive sheets
we arched the rapids
slipping under cool slate skies
mouths posing questions,
flexing answers
as if drunk on truth serum

time is kind,
memory is an benevolent editor
less lies in this somnolent rendering.
chronicling the desire
in a reasoned, understandable way

I awoke in wonder

remembered
with less reservation

©Tom Watters  8/9/09

a wisp of resuscitation
reveals a sign that says closed.
I guess the hours got changed,
again.

shutting me down
after the first tremors

I’d love to be an impartial observer
a reader of these near-crimes
not feeling, save for the lessons.
switch the channel
or just turn down the sound

but it is
loud and silent
and raw
thrown on the floor
like notes
from Duane’s guitar

overshadowed
by the absence
that comes again
in single file

©Tom Watters  8/6/09

a torn history
maps warm drops of
repetitious red ink

I propagate my past
rote and unrepentant
slaving at the turnstile
of this cruel mirrored ball

craving the charm
of a better man
spilling truths
and spitting love
serpenting apples

I halt myself of
dancing at your feet,
deaf to my own music

given this window of refrain
I grow a garden
and feed myself
that which flows from me

hold myself dear
in the light
drink from what
I would desire for you

time travel eludes
but there is this day

and there is the next

© Tom Watters  8/1/09

closer

relegated to attempts
it seems as though
my prime
will be spent
shopping in circles
furnishing a house
of contradiction

my fingers
too large to caress you
my quick breaths
voyeuristic gales
gestures too grand

everything clumsy
adoring
distant
futile and coarse
without the peace
that comes from scale

I buy a tiny lamp
with hope of
illumination and warmth

sometimes
the world
is the smallest world
in the world

closer

© Tom Watters  7/10/09