All poems by Viggo Mortensen!

Cuttings

The afterthought of chimes
Filters in from next door
I am under the Echo, Not
Listening so much as nothing
It from time to time as
I look over the results
Of my landscaping and
weeding from a white
wicker chair.

An errant vine has sprouted
Two blue flowers
Where it reaches
Roots of the lemon tree.
They are beautiful;
I am suspicious.
Are they a diversion
An entreaty to keep me
from cutting back the vine?
I'll keep the flowers,
Put them in a saucer
By your bed.

Just Coffee

He wanted bigger love,
Had to have it like he
Had to dream himself
To sleep. Recrossed
His legs and waited
For her tears. When
They came, He held
Her hand, pretended
to be interested in
someone walking by
their table.

Trague

I swallowed the reel
And the rod
And the faith that
So sweetly I had
The afternoon of the day
That I met you

I saw myself in your eyes
And in your arms
And an entire lifetime
In your lips I lived
The afternoon of the day
That I met you.

Stones

Met by a lake near the sun
Your mouth and eyes, arms
And legs, melted as though
We'd known each other well
And needed only rekindle
Warmth of the familiar.
As if patience were rewarded
And now we'd share everything.

Ten Last Night

I pass a pile of broken chairs
On our street corner
And feel you
Dying on me.
I taste the blood
That shimmered
On your lips
Lingering, like guilt does.

Second Opinion

The glow inside another red-crossed pelvis
Will drain when they crush that little bulb.
Menstual minstrels drift in
From the weedless garden.
The immaculate blue flame
From the fake fireplace
Burns the corner of my eye.
can't stop staring at nothing.
A gloved hand opens the door,
And the man enters soothingly,
With an air of respect for the dead.
Encourages us to look on the bright side.
Black pants hide your pain afterwards,
And there's a cookie on a napkin
And a paper cup of red juice
To replace your strength.
We drive home without blinking
Because the sun isn't real.