Linger

At the end of a crooked curve
The traffic stands still like a steaming daydream
He stands caressing a memory of rocks and unicorns.
This is where it began. And here. And here.
Here the glitter. Here the muck.
Here the laughter bursting at the seams
And spirited promises trickling along the gutter
In spirited silence.

Would she believe, if she knew
That on shapeless nights in his neon solitude
Away from the dreams of drunken curling
Of lazy lips and the helpless drowning
In her eyes her eyes her eyes,
Among the frosted fields and misted mornings
Between the shadows of glowing curtains
The white warmth of a certain naked afternoon
Still unfolds cold down his spine?

At the end of each crooked curve
Among the earthen others
The dead end of a helpless falling
Flickers flickers flickers still

What can one hope for
What could he hope to forget
Beyond this deepest bluest night
Past the smokerings and grimestained afternoons
And evenings that tug at his shoulders still
His shoulders that droop like a raindrenched forest
When he still longs for that one kiss of redness
That spoke of seawinds and soft dreams
And whispered lovesongs in his brightest midnight.