poetryrepairs #203 14.08:092
JOHN HORVATH Jr : Healing Process of Love Encountered Haphazardly
EFTICHIA KAPARDELI : Hai-kou 1 el, 1 en; 2 el, 2en
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Healing Process of Love Encountered Haphazardly
We had met in a bar, the perfection of opportunity became a stubborn attribute of loneliness, where chances conformed to a gamer's self-love, where her hand over my shoulder sought to quench dire thirsts forced a kiss mid-conversation as it were a natural reaction to close proximity. A quick kiss upon her slim wrist scarred like herringbone, that I thought it somewhat sad and also lucky happening because I had come to drink and to talk with a stranger scores or players, the inconsequentials we might share like the failure of traffic lights to acknowledge when lovers need more time, the invisibility of the law when it is needed, a judge who had fined me for hurried love with his daughter. All the true and imagined connections held dear, those that bound us in the social illusion. We would-be dancers deceiving ourselves with knowledge of the dance. It was the ball above the dance floor, the source of light illuminating this or that movement, a face, a hand falling from soft shoulder to waist, above it all, lighting her wrist as only another in the flood of crowd. I had convinced myself though I had been drinking and swollen so with confidence that words strung out heavily like an anthem in dirge time or the last second before an accident when you know unquestion- ingly that upon waking there would be a nurse in a white room, perhaps a few doctors swapping golf tips over the chasm of an open chest, heart exposed. Then she touched it. a tap that sapped the milk of life No one wants to die alone, last words echoing emptily against no one as if they had not been spoken, as if had they been spoken nobody cared to listen, as if one's death simply could not exist. Blood dripped from her fingers like a head of suds overflowing its public cup, the mug taking on a startled look as it hit the floor and I said, here now, I'll buy you another. When she smiled I took her bright wrist to my lips for a last kiss. A long kiss. As a man who for several years had been deprived of woman. As a dog to its returning master. I kissed it. From the floor. She smiled.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:092

All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading

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Hai-kou 1 el, 1 en; 2 el,2 en

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:092

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Come, my sharp-clawed cat, linger by my pillow. I'll chase sleep's flight into darkness, so I can touch the latch of your years, that long fur embedded deep in the skin. If I hold my hand out, your razor tongue might taste the aquatic I swallowed whole. How many oysters must slide down my throat before you mark me. My heart ticks wildly like that old wall clock loaded with a crazed bird. Here, my tightly knotted carpet, my gate to the gut, nine lives in one, I cut myself wide open for you.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:092

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- O.E.D.


JOHN HORVATH Jr : Healing Process of Love Encountered Haphazardly
EFTICHIA KAPARDELI : Hai-kou 1 el, 1 en; 2 el,2 en

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