I Love You Still

I Love You Still

I love you still.

Who can really say
that it wasn’t enough ‘then’
when the quota expected
is always doomed to be The Judge
by The Jury of its needed-sum
found in the next moment,

A moment that has passed by
the just-then
like a bolt of lightning speeds past
a match factory’s malfunctioning
lightning rod assembly?

Some will say it was a blessing
that the factory was saved,
others will admit that its having burnt down
the fire department was a greater loss,
particularly on a night of 4000
successful swings and 1 miss.

There’s a shade-sliver
of a disgruntled god in all of us…

It’s enough to make us both Inn-keeper,
Demolition operator, Tenant and Contractor
all in one night (or at dawn
if you’re a morning person.)

To “Keep your eye on the Ball.”
The ball that’s the same shape of your eye,
yet is retina and pupil less,
that’s stitched together
and wound for winding’s sake (?)

I’ve watched things became thingy-er.

I’ve witnessed the fluidity of romance
erased away
by the paper tearing,
antique desk scratching,
blunted eraser of the mysterious
Time Never Told,

That ticking whose origin is mimicked
in the conscience-lifespan of bombs,
the lateness of conscience in a lifespan
measured by Just Now
and the lifespan of a conscience late,
which is so oftentimes felt as eternal…

Do you forgive me for the love
I could not propagate due to our
field’s undetermined boarders,
fence lines
who kept us separately awake at night
with their winding up
of old barbed wire,

the sounds of rust flakes
touching down
on newly rolled out wax paper,

the breaking and crumbling up
of already set concrete corks
and the grinding stirring mixing
of the ready made new gypsum
so to plot again
more and more and more,

So far out of ourselves
that the Earth alone simply gave up
all its promises to us
as a place that could contain
our dream’s annexing

And set us loose,
willy nilly
into the wind of silly seriousness,

Dances that raged and unbound
prisoners in us more ancient than the
invention of chains, dungeons
and religion?

Can you forgive the crying of a baby
who cannot tell its tale,
who cannot express its field of vision,
who cannot because it can
and is doing something else,

Something unbound and yet
wound up for life’s sake;
let go into this world
as a being who gathers
even while planting,

Who comes home
with the field’s soil-fur
beneath its nails
since it has succeeded in
crawling all the way so to
give to you the witnessing of
its standing up and walking
from its own love for the first time?

I wonder in this nighttime
because I am lost.

I do not need to remind myself
of this directional confusion,
my bellybutton confesses everything,
everyday,
every which way but loose,

Because a loosely spun together orb
cannot ever merit a home run,
it cannot resist enough that initial
impact to be rewarded its soaring freedom,
that success that none can catch,
that success that all see going overhead,
beyond their expectations
and ability to fully feel its
particular brand of personal privacy,

When it finally lands
as an incognito famous sphere,
rolls a little
and recalls the palm
who last held its perfect stitches
against its callused lifelines.

I love you still.

May 7, 2009

http://www.michaelangell.com
http://www.michaelangellstudios.com

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