Frail Wind in Winter:, Richard Gaiser [distant reading txt] 📗

Frail Wind in Winter





Richard Gaiser


Waking Up
in Winter


I rise from the bed of sweat
so fast beads roll off my skin,
shaking clean stuck
sheets.

In the midst of summer
I’ve found myself curious with heat,
to remember what cold felt like,
and who, what,
how I relate to the frost
between my toes -
outdoor casualty of leaves.

Chilly morning recall,
air hanging to cotton fog
afraid to shiver,
breathing in to cool off
my heated heart,
loving heart.

A half heart that drives
across town just to get back in bed
with it's other half.

Hopeless romantic dipped
in irreplaceable,
"darling" rolling off my breath,
wishing this car was faster.

If I spoke
it would be with infection,
eyes lighting up, extinguisher tongue,
a sparing taste
of how real kisses should feel,
look like,
at least pretend to be
even if not possible quite
this second.

A restless fashion
of watching doors open,
windows cracked as we wrap
ourselves in sheets like a puppy would,
round and round,
over and over,
until we find that we can’t get out.
Laughter to keep us warm.

And from here, a sigh,
peering outside as the wind blows frost in,
layers of calm,
collected,
in an unexpected need
for what lies before us in that day.

That morning
before we get out of bed for
coffee and dream bethinking,
yours in an odd shaped mug
your mom should have thrown
away a hundred years ago.

“Character” is what you’d call it.
And, I’d be thinking
of the quivering sun mourning
the moon, keeping me glued
to the counter watching you drink
sparingly at first, and then glowingly
as if invigorated with God.

Winter seems to have captured me
in between scenes
where I never wanted to wear socks
even when the floor could have frozen my toes
solid.
Even when I knew that dog’s wet nose
was there to lick them every time,
feet scampering, clacking, ticking
the ground as he ran in circles
around the kitchen
once it got into the garbage for something
it wasn’t going to eat anyway.

And with this,
steeping memory in thought,
I smile,
letting the feeling of winter trail off
for later days in hotter weather.

I want the memory dispersed
when the waves of heat are relentless
because it will repose mind,
allow me to cool off bad thoughts,
or restless trials of centering myself.

May winter bring me closer to you,
or maybe before time slips too far,
like the sun rising those mornings,
negating the frosted windshields,
cold glass on the front door
as we peer out while the dog romps around
in cold grass to pee.

I always felt winter came in drafts,
waves, and a storm
of bundling my heart to keep my life warm.


The Temperature
of Tea


My stomach is weak,
tired and mangled.

The tea does it no
better, waves of light brown
and dark specs smash down,
past aorta.

Sip, sip,
guzzle,
rest.

Where am I going
for these next weeks?
And, where should I figure
I'll end before the end
of this week?

Sip, sip,
guzzle,
rest.

The temperature is seven
past eighty degrees there, and here
it is almost fifty.

Sip, sip,
guzzle,
rest.

Moths from my wallet
have decided to eat into my chest,
dig deep into my heart,
and flutter around via
vein, replacing red blood cell
clusters.

Guzzle, lips
licked, sip,
"Fuck".

Fingers pry the skin over my eyes
up so my eye can fully see,
liquid ember swallowed
for the best rest a man could
have ever asked
for.

Caffeinated shakes that push my hand
right back to my mouth
to suck down the rest of this
"resting" cup.

Sip, sip,
guzzle, sip,
toss.

For the next few days
I hope the warm taste soothes
me from going insane.



Quiet

There's a light touch at hand,
wrapping fingers and thinning smoke
between the wish -
where was the finished grin
of brilliant waves washing
sin to the side, curling around,
edging itself off the end of my
tongue.

An avalanche to
said canyon.

Float
and slowly sink,
gasp for oxygen,
silent sunlight is breathing
you in.

Disappear, vanish
and say,
"I never meant me for you"

"I never wanted you for me"

Casting the calming
harp.


Bed Without
Borders


I can't live without
change, and I can't live
without you,
because my bed is empty
without your face
looking through.

I'll be here
before you leave,
and I'll be here
far after the end,
so I'll be here
longer than ever and closer
than what you've dreamed.

I'm dizzier than
the top you dropped
and wound around
your ankles,

and

I'm colder than
the ice between your lips,
but I'm not in mind
to be minding what you do (to me).

You may have begun to begin
your path in being the
dirtiest thing in charge of
cleaning my heart, and
easing my dreaming sleep,

of swinging sheets
and casing the pillows
of bodies creating
heat.


A Company of
Seagulls


Fluttering lashes
hold stance, as if guards
to her blooming iris,
and rotation of rings.

Clouds hover,
huff their sleet
over the land, she a
hibernating drain
waiting for her mind
to release the tensing
jaw from its locked
position, chill
subsiding -
replacement grin.

Snow covers
the earth before I
can walk any further
than two steps forward
before flakes begin
hiding their niche.

I suppose I'll stay
A little while before
the her sleep soaks up
hours of white shower,
so my feet can tap
in calm waters after.



Keep Me Safe
Inside




A quaint little hole
for a small little crawl
to the other side of the world,
where the snow settles me
against the crying hush
of winding tunnels holding
my late night secrets, revealing
themselves to a overextending attempt,
deciding where the circle starts
and the light begins.

Amongst the craters and
rocking talk of whistling white,
frozen sheets,
I find myself in standard,
wishing myself away from death,
closer to lifting the life
above my head and to
sheets of a whispering bed.

And she'll talk sweet,
of dreams, and keeping me
in this room of laughter,
silent cold that fill
the window with words to devour,
resting them on the sidewalk
of the outside walking world.

Publication Date: 01-18-2010

All Rights Reserved