Thursday, March 24, 2005

She hated him. On first sight. Hated, detested, abhorred, reviled. But then she also had the same kind of passionate hate for ingrown toe-nails, papayas and red ties. Hate then becomes a misnomer, a shortcut to describe incompatibility and irritation. A state of not-getting-along. He then was nothing but an exaggerated peeve. But that was not what she would say. The word she used was hate.
Why you must let it grow

So its rivers lie dreaming,
across the moon in your sheets at night
so its one million gnats of electricity
pulse in agreement as you negotiate the hours

so lovers, current and future, can lose their fingers
in its dark well of echo stories
so it swoops like sea gulls, dizzy with speed
everytime you unwittingly bend to tie your laces

so winds may concur in wide eyed unison
as they plunge down its slippery stairs
so it is again densely populated with voices,
the shadow secrets of dusk

so you catch his double take
from the corner of your eye
when you throw your head back and laugh

Well Phil, it's growing!!!