Iceberg

I love you in the darkness –
Even when there is light.
Not the noise of the daylight,
More artificial. . . late when
The house is silent
A book open before me.
In the story I place you
On a ballroom floor
Wearing the black velvet locket
Encircling her neck with particular tenderness.
Or, the mouth, open, poised
Waiting for lips to whisper to your throat
Words shaped to fill
The empty spaces of your soul.
Yes, in stories, I love you.
In darkness – only. In winter. In Fall.
When the leaves gather on the frost,
Auburn and yellow upon crystalline white.
The spot, the colors, I spread your
Black hair across, opened your mouth,
Shaped that emptiness with my lips,
Whispered the truth to your throat –
On leaves of auburn and yellow.
The truth of darkness and stories;
Stories of solid whispers and a love
That I can only feel beneath my tremble…
Beneath the shadow of the leaf pressed
Against the iceberg of your skin.

written: October 7, 1999