En route, to love you.
Some men, cursed with a love for scarcity… If I have felt you before, and remember this taste That leads me on, and gets me up, overflowing Coffee, two rivers touching my toes, Smoking too many cigarettes, Abundance, peaking out even from The reflection of skin in the Essex turnstile, The Jersey skyline, tennis balls, dirty rivers Its you, I love! How can some men curse themselves with Such a love for scarcity that degrades? For though A depleted destitute life could bore the imagination, Never could love. Nor a 4 o’clock coffee thinking of you. Not toil, but a sexy power, so much that Steers between stones, and docks us, at the grave of love, forever sprayed with gusts of water, forever a choice to recur. Men so cursed, have they not flown into the sea? Or stood under the earth, tuning out Death’s wrath While gazing back at the baffling prize of life, Wifed, impossible to refuse. No man could curse himself, in water that always flows. For if I sailed the taunting sea and his wanton waves, for a want I may never see, I would relent until I docked. I would refuse the death teased to me when the ship seems not to sail anymore and the horizon decides to vanish. The ship must sail until I dock. and there, docked, instead of Death I will take myself apart. For I’m no use as a sailor if there are no sails to be stirred. And I’ll offer myself up to whomever grabs me first, so they may rebuild my skin soft enough to cradle. A boat not yet dismantled, waiting faithful, though I’ll walk and lay for aye with my builder, Sustained by a want that once stirred my sails, I’ll live to never look back at the sea. (For how could I look at anything but you?)