poem 385 of a poem a day for 2012

standing at attention

the hairs on my arm

ring with a resisting

of the static insistence

of my fleece being pulled off

it is a cold raw day here

in the southern edges

of the northern forests

the smell of tannin fall

and all that rain

is this constancy

of an exit body death

Winter is nearing

in a damp embrace

I sit and tap keys

I scream at myself

for being past 40

all the time

I am mapping myself

with no direction

without ever knowing

when to stop looking

at the border-less beauty

of my cardinal sins

they are all lined up

like poems in their Jesus licks

like envelopes stuffed with ideas

until they form a second skin

a breathable soul with holes

so small I can’t feel myself

being bled to death through

their passing remarks

time and space here

is filled with weightless inane

as the cash register sings

each sundry bell sold

ringing up the exotic eyes,

lips, tongues and limbs

that I want

that someday

I might even grow

into when nodding

to nap where

I might go

hand in hand

on a whim

to a place

that I already know

EJR ©