Spinozablue: An Eclectic Journal of the Arts

wan­der­lust

 

 

 

The sand would scrape itself

            I heard it whisper

as i breached the white­washed torrent

            with my chest

emerg­ing forth ever­clear and green

            drench-​​dripping in the first

pos­i­tive moment

            hun­gry for the textures

of earth and flesh

            the mor­tal opacity.

I carved a mon­u­ment, an easel.

            Then por­trayed a pastoral.

I will try to find you there again

            around and behind every root and knoll

into the craters of every ero­sion and explosion

            straining

the fur­thest inher­ent peripherals.

 

The wind sep­a­rates my limbs, it tousles

            the hair of the sol­dier­ing trees

I lie on my back and shape cloudshapes

            around your name

I lie here bar­ren in your memory.

Spinning under the moon, hand in hand

            with the animals

into the torn lace out­skirts of evenings

            the blue the pale the pagan

suck­ling an entirely dif­fer­ent oxygen

            and I saw you there

your arms flung open

            the mouth of churches

                        spilling light.

 

I will press your flow­ers between the pages of a book.

I will press your book between the eaves of a shelf.

I will press your shelf into a web-​​haunted corner

and in the vacant room I will try to remember.

 

I will walk barefoot

            down gardenpath

wren­footed, prufrocked,

            I will har­bor a love

of stain-​​glassed windows

            and gaso­line rainbows

all the jagged mathematics

            of bro­ken sea-​​glass

the mul­ti­plic­ity of prisms.

 

I will cul­ti­vate flowerbeds

            into fes­ter­ing expul­sions of tenderness

cup­ping in bowls their resins

            of loveliness

until I arrive, trem­bling, blood-​​ready

            for the slaughter

 

 

 

 

 

— by Joseph Milford

 

 

 

 

Copyright© 2011 by Joseph Milford. All Rights Reserved.

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Joseph V. Milford is a Professor of English at Georgia Military College south of Atlanta. His first book, Cracked Altimeter, was pub­lished in 2010. He is the host of the weekly Joe Milford Poetry Show (http://joemilfordpoetryshow.com), which he main­tains with his wife,  Chenelle. He also edits the lit­er­ary jour­nal Scythe with his wife from their shack in rural Georgia. Recently, some bleach repli­cated the Shroud of Turin on his favorite black shirt, but he does not believe in E-​​Bay.

 

 

 

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