Waiting…

sometimes

in the late sleeping-hours

I can hear them

old memories

washing ashore

insomniacs

frolicking about

in the shadows of the room

like young children

staring into the future

wondering why I’ve lingered

existent in the moment

procrastinating

at poeticizing them

they wonder as wanderers do

when will they come to rest

and dream in the minds

of others who will

vicariously impersonate

a life to be relived…

Gustation

We were often
misunderstood
childish as green—love
for our tongues
longed for the taste of strange
fruit
from far off places
that stained our lips
with beautiful poems
illogical
expressions
contorting beliefs
souls burning passion—unconsumed
aroused as wind
in coition with skin—us
stars against a canvas of blackness
smeared into beauty
the only way to see
is to look at them
pressed against black skin
like everything
pressed against something
reveals true intent
the words we press out
of our mouths
as profound as the morning paper.