she will realize

perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow
she will realize.
perhaps yesterday.
you thought of it this morning.
your fingers trace your forehead's creases
warm, yellow, velvet creases.
don't startle her.
perhaps she will sleep one night
with love-glazed eyes
and the morning will bring
unsatisfied bliss.
she stares straight ahead.
black, black eyelashes
blacker, blacker eyes.
her fists clench in heartache
or exasperation and you remember
that sometimes when your boat
docks in dry sand
and her head tilts satiricially
or in adoration
you must be content only to remember
that you love her,
and that is enough.

give me leave to love you

i feign not to walk beside you,
only let me kiss your footprints.
i seek not to grasp your fingers,
only let me worship them.
when one is drunk with blind devotion,
one does not demand promotion.
only let me clutch emotion!
only let me break my heart.
i think not to make your heart race,
only take mine at your feet.
only let me watch you softly.
i think not your eyes to meet.
i dare not to wish myself yours,
only know i'm at your will.
heaven knows you're far too worthy!
heaven knows you're its most fair.
heaven knows its dark-haired daughter
pines without hope of repair.
heaven sees your gentle nature!
heaven sees your perfect smile!
i dare not ask affection of you,
only give me leave to love you.

eighteenth century

head hurts like after you cry
feels like it should rain outside
but there's sun outside your mind.
imprudent maybe, but inescapable.
it's gonna turn either worse or wonderful.
that's how it goes.
for safety reasons you might want to go
away somewhere i won't be there.
hertfordshire, gracechurch street
they don't mean anything anymore.
walk through dirt-shuffled air
three miles to what used to be there.
i'm not some pride-driven emma
woodhouse, no fire in my soul.
i'm just some jane bennet looking for
someone to make me whole.
i'm not giving up, letting go of these
hands keeping me alive here in the cold.
i'm still looking for that flawed
other half of me i've been told will come.
insolence in the park you see
lack of love, lack of impropriety
beneficial to all but we.
lackluster lights in the famed scene
is there love in the eighteenth century?
it's always you and its always me.
you're not some love-blinded henry crawford
with too much to give.
you're just some upright edmund bertram
who knows how to live.

sonnet #6

Ride we now upon this narrow pavement
which winds between the joyous and the dead,
which claps its fists in warning drums of thunder
like monuments that shake their stony heads.
A warning cry, a shrill black song of fear
flamed from the road when our hearts realized
the hidden knowledge ringing in our ears:
"Couldst thou prescribe a solvent for mine eyes?"
Your hands so pale that grip the steering wheel
are shedding innocence and dripping blood.
Agape, the charred bystanders watch you heal,
as clean gore cleanses smudged. Redeeming flood!
Above the road's dull roar our voice we'll raise
and drown out opposition to our praise.

sonnet #5 1/2

shall i compare thee to the moon at night?
for both are pallid, pale and prone to wane;
and really, neither shines so very bright.
i would that you were quite as far away!
the sky is black now, dark as your intents,
but much less dull and rather better masked.
what insolence! you think my heart's for rent!
that i would sell, and then regret the task!
shall i, as well, compare thee to the day?
i could respond with something sharp and clever
of "how you're more inclined to fade and fray", but
i do fear your fragile heart to sever.
the stars are more prepared for nightly dance,
in silver lines arranged for morbid wars;
fervent armies stronger than your heart's stance:
how both wish to eclipse all signs of morn!
i could compare thee to the dawn's bright face,
but it would only end in your disgrace.