“Love” Poems For Kathy Number Twenty-Nine


A guest, as different from you

as leaves are from flowers, called

under the temperate stars, and lisped

your name – a pale, almost

slippery word, slighter than a mayfly

or the ‘wheet’ of a melancholy bird.

What did it mean? the guest,

the inadequate tongue, the gradual failure

as if – from a higher to a lower rung –

everything slipped or ceased? All I know

is nowhere seems more substantial now

than this palace of air, than these empires of words.

A slimmer nowhere interposes singularity, though

who was the guest who called? Was the feast

farce? I know I dined. I remember

a driven beast, breast to breast with tormenting furies,

then a cold dawn, whispering flames, leaping water,

charcoal burnt beyond burning.

Let me guess the rest

in this narcosis of intolerable yearning.

(from “”Love” Poems For Kathy / Green. Laced. Leaves”)

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Written by Jonathan Finch

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