This desk, bottles of ink,
the lamp with green glass shade,
dark wooden box of pens,
I would walk away from these.

This body, my blue eyes,
the great trunk and limbs,
brown and wavy hair,
I would part with as with ash.

The house, the dripping pipes and
thoughtless, silent wires, the windows
that look onto nothing but night,
I would leave to fall and rot.

The town, the dark inscrutable hills,
salt air and sea wind, railroad and
freeway panting and every grain of sand,
I would forget, forgetting wind.

This silent house, this night cold
with bright stars, this life
of measured sand and flowers,
I would turn from as from tears.

But you, brown eyes, frail voice
and fleeting breath, I cling to, lean
against like a thousand year tree
and I am dying in your shade.
(c) Copyright 2000 Kyle Kimberlin
neat, isn't it?