Refrain
twist of tongue turned twist of wrists
befalls twists in sheets (all night)
your words aglow on pages (printed) beneath the waning gibbous light
shining through an open window kept ajar for those verses
to feather-fall among the cricket’s song
–in concert with yours–
on repeat, a treasured refrain
preventing sleep, forbidding cenote pools to settle
bare feet tiptoe along creeking floorboards
invisible imprints raise hushed echoes down the hall
deft fingers pry open a back door left unlocked in a summer daze
a calloused hand sweeps wayward wavy hair from pursed lips
then returns to encircle knees pressed to chest
while seated in a large wicker chair
silently pleading with the gods to extend June’s presence
no response (yet)
tired eyes lift from pages curling at the edges in the soft wind
to survey shadows creeping closer while the stars sail through the sky;
evening creatures’ yips and cries bleed melancholy symphonies
into aching hearts buried deep in the darkness
eyes close to conjur spirits traveling along throaty-lupine-growls
between legs
between breaths
between dusk and dawn
summoning them to collect smoke-scratched whispers over bourbon
to quench this thirst for falling in love
with the idea of a magnetic refrain
8 thoughts on "Refrain"
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Wow.
this is like going around
the world three times
while being seated in a large
wicker chair.
I love the movement,
the sound of throaty lupine growls
and the smoked scratched whispers
over bourbon
Thank you, Jim. I appreciate that you read this and enjoyed the movement. Those sounds are appealing, for sure.
There’s…so much to say, but I am finishing the third in a triptych that, I hope, reveals too much in the echo chamber 💙😞
“quench this thirst for falling in love
with the idea of a magnetic refrain”
I can’t do anything about the gods.
But my response incoming.
The gods giveth and the gods taketh away.
Thank you for reading. I look forward to seeing what you create, too.
Happy writing.
Do they though?
It’s also said, “the gods provide for those who provide for themselves.”
Just as…counterpoint 😉
Will let the poem say the rest.
Fair point. 😉
feels like a dollhouse, hinged and open in the middle
each stanza a threepenny opera/tour-of-every-room.
Pretty much. Practically sleepwalking at one point, too. Ha!
Thank you for reading.