The Poetry Of.
Kenneth P. Gurney........................
As Long As Possible
Like a sugar cube
so full of water
we dissolved
into kisses
spread over
the bedding.
We clutched
smoke without
fire from friction.
We closed our eyes
to the cherry sun.
We held the amber
twilight long after
our sharp breaths
cut us loose.
Impolitic
Just when she finally lets go
of her rant on the administration,
it occurs to me that the trumpets
I hear blowing in red shift
reach center, then move
toward blue.
And the grinding wheels
of the railcar are there
under that single note
held in concert.
The sunlight glints of the brass
as the flatcar rolls by—
Dopler's demonstration—
but it is dusk
and we are not near
a rail line as we sit
at a table in a Thai restaurant.
But she takes up again her disparage
of "Iraq" and "No Child Left Behind"
and the posturing from the podium
in the State of the Union.
Where is the walk
in the rising moonlight
along the river, the touch
of cool air upon our arms
as our heat rises,
our blood turning
our skin a soft red
as a kiss approaches?
Solace of Water, Scents
As we entered the restaurant
the air smelled of cabbages
and the owner's Old Spice.
At least it was that way
the day I took one too many
vicodin and couldn't feel
the surgical staples
or how tight my shoelaces
were tied.
And when we got home
you were in the mood for love
but all I could offer
was the pleasure of kisses
and fingers, so you let
a hot bath eat you
while heated oils
emitted lilacs
that sifted through the cracks
between the door and frame.
Years later I drove
all the way to Utah
just to see you.
In a darkened shop
we found our poetry,
one shelf on the bottom
of a dusty stack,
leather bound, raised
letters in gold.
But life changed us.
Fridays felt like Mondays
and your lonely bed
feared anything that weighed
more than one-hundred
and twenty pounds.
So I took a hot shower,
cleaned myself
with teatree soaps,
the floral boquette
of a fluffy towel
recently removed from the dryer
and retired to the sofa.
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