Of course I'd like you to say something like
"the window is open; it is cold", or maybe
something with the texture of bagged carrots,
"the rain hasn't stopped yet; let's get some tea",
something that could easily be pinned down
like an Australian butterfly, rare and dark, fragile,
like words I'd like you to say, something like
"should we tumble dry those delicates", or, perhaps,
hold hands while watching the old homeless couple,
the man without shoes, long white beard and bad stench,
the old lady pristine white, clean, tired, smiling,
next to him, breathing little clouds of steam as they
patiently wait for the light to finally turn green.
The lines draw two naked bodies.
Only white blankets cover parts of skin.
It's morning and the city moans outside.
Glass bottles decorate the floor, in accident.
The light is white; there is no color here.
The scene is drawn in pencil, from a notebook.
It's a question of strokes, grey and black,
glimpses of a longer story. This world is a mirage.
The lines draw two fragile bodies.
The paper smells of of steamy urban escapades.
The moment will be gone in an instant.
Drawing is thinking is reflecting. The paper smokes.
The bodies are drawn with thin black lines.
They talk, in silence. Watch it.
I always think of her
climbing down the stairs
white as the house
she saw for the last time.
It's the repeated bass line
that makes her smile,
one has to think
of her as so aware,
seeing the future
she wrote carefully, slowly.
This is the diary
of Laura Palmer,
I read and feel guilty
for sneaking into death
as the sound of plastic
covers her pale skin,
white as the ruled paper
she wrote on with such candor,
the words giving away
all possible conclusions.
Her mouth is frozen
in my dreams of cold lakes
and the reflection of the two
silent watchers who know all.