Imagined Matins.

...the cut up stuff, close to the aperture, collage, poetry, scratches in the sunlight, shit haiku, Uncategorized

Barely rested, but with fevered beats beneath

my skin, I drew her supposed aroma in

and out and in again

and all around this sleeping creature

my world contracted and expanded;

and I wondered of her dreaming.

 

To pass the time I figured cracks,

pretended craters, dead seas, frontiered

charts across her ceiling. On her walls

I traced our shadows’ leak and meaning,

our slang and our common tongue.

 

I explored our soft and sheeted region

with hum and thumb and tip of finger.

I conjured, I fancied, from her features,

miracles with brush and stroke.

I breathed her hollows and, as if by magick,

we wreathed this room with imagined matins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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19 thoughts on “Imagined Matins.”

  1. I found this so enchanting, all of it, N. Reeves. Each finely placed word. I love the use of the word “wreathed” as an act all its own, of gentle placement, of decoration but warmly, not gaudily, so. And “matins”… I have loved them all my life and never knew this name for them. 🙂 Thank you for your magnificent words and scenes, my friend. xo

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    1. Which reminds me of one, of you:

      Triolet on a Line Apocryphally Attributed to Martin Luther

      Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
      The booze and the neon and Saturday night,
      The swaying in darkness, the lovers like spoons?
      Why should the Devil get all the good tunes?
      Does he hum them to while away sad afternoons
      And the long, lonesome Sundays? Or sing them for spite?
      Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
      The booze and the neon and Saturday night?

      –A E Stallings

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