Tenfold was the number that the poet muttered

at the time it meant more to the eunuch than the king
too procedural to recognize folly from policy
pushing past outstretched arms and time to organize the unimportant

in a time tenfold lived by ten times tenfold on lesser planes
of those who would take a season or a year,
one simple night of distance compressed and
wealth of thought created for me a soul of souls

caught in a trajectory of color for the scribe who surfaced in time
but not quite out of time amongst the hope and charity sketched
on a napkin wet from the scents of the blind and torn

no cold could keep that moment more frozen in time
no lottery could have chosen better Autumn smells or the precise
streetlamp flicker of changing neighborhoods

of tossed weariness
of watchful caution not unlike a child in a crowd

would Hemingway appear, he would have said that the man was happy
content
cheerful to the best of his ability and that is good
because happy is a moment mostly lost on those who have not touched your soft skin or listened to your dreams with eyes focused

in a world were no one flies in duality there is clearly room for unconditional days of laughter and nights of peace
for candles yet to be lit
if only to wait for our eyes to stare in a language known
not even by the core of humanity

were I a poet, I would write something pithy
and you would smile that metal smile
and laugh a hearty laugh

then I would know that there is nothing outside of my bounds
to which I would keep writing to keep you engaged with good shelter
and wish to time upon time that

if words were a measure of time
I would add to the lexicon every day
so that I would never run out of time with you.

12/18/2011

Posted on 12/18/2011
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