Lost
But how could I have
returned to you?
How? When
the memory
of
fingertips
still burned my face
like bars of sunlight
falling
heavily
through autumn
shadows,
and behind
ordinary
things the
colors
of the
world
were
memories
of the angels’ touch?
I am trying to
speak.
I couldn't
return ---
not with this
desire
shivering in me like a drenched
child. This longing
for a
breath
to tear me open.
This lust that will
slice me into color.
I didn't speak. I turned
from you. I
drifted
into the trees. I saw
the lovers kiss, and they
fell into each other
and blew away,
sand
on the ancient wind,
turning
deeper
into the blue wind
and the
sky
and the
sky
and the
sky
James Owens divides his time between Wabash,
Ind., and Northern Ontario. Two books of his poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press)
and Frost
Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, reviews, translations,
and photographs have appeared widely in literary journals, including recent or
upcoming publications in The Cortland Review, The Cresset, Poetry
Ireland, and The Chaffey Review. He blogs at http://circumstanceandmagic.blogspot.com
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