Under the Moon: An American contrapuntal
I prefer that you are not angry with me,
I am not a slacker or a malingerer
With you I can be honest, I have a problem with my DNA.
The genetic malformation makes my life a heavy globe
to carry. Do not walk under my feet. Give me space.
You can be very funny - with your cutting wit
Funny enough to dissolve most men — like sulphuric acid.
But not me. I do not play with words.
So do not blush when I say this: your presence is like a languorous breeze touching the sleeves of my shirt.
I like that you are with me as I become more ill
We embrace each other calmly. We do not need hell-fire sermons.
Instead you read Bleak House or Whitman's poems out loud for me.
Each word is like a kiss. A tender kiss.
You are gentle. There is no anger in your brown eyes, flecked with green.
I lie here thinking in vain. Mainly of the past.
We do not mention illness. Neither in the day nor in the night
Being alive is not like being in a synagogue or a church.
Life lacks the necessary silence. - but we can still sing
Cling to each other as music plays.
Nobody sings over us: we sing for ourselves.
Nothing is in order. Nothing is resolved or solved.
You hold my hand while I sleep.
There is a calm rarity in letting time drift away in this way.
We wait for dusk.
Thank God. I am sick and not you.
We both have our hearts, our minds, our souls, some little time.