Leonard Gontarek: Kissing

1

Revisionist spring. It is cold and authorities lie within days.

.

Do we need to talk of death, remind them of it,

create little machines of death to float down their streams and in their baths?

.

This is the first day.

.

Our children are wearing our fathers’ and mothers’ clothes.

.

It is strange how those who believe in peace

wear ironic uniforms, faded camouflage, late winter green.

2

Limbs complain like bedsprings,

but birds landing is cushioned.

Coffee sediment of earth is stirred up.

You get a face full of leaves.

.

Though there is nothing to it,

everything is evening.

Perfume is narrowed down,

too much, charged with the past.

.

Kissing is a mouth full of dying, seems

right, I’ll have to tell her later.

3

I am weeping in dark trees.

For the dark trees make a weeping sound. I am the chewed parts of worm the fat Buddha feeds me.

That’s the knock on the soul.

For we cannot have the morning light.

I am certain I can locate myself among objects if I let myself.

That’s your move? For I am lost in the trees. Shuffling and snorting of the Minotaur.

No birds, I notice.

—

Copyright 2015 Leonard Gontarek