Dwight Stevers: Poetry

	Poetry
	Dwight Stevers

Chords
I want to touch your skin again, and slide in the curves and angles of you. I leave nothing behind as I go into your eyes. I leave everything behind as you go into mine. Amid giggles and little kisses we talk of our insanity. I listen to your heartbeat as I fall asleep. I want to sit between the hemispheres of your brain and rest a while. Or slide down the shimmering thread of existence to a place where you rest. I want to hear the symphonies that dance around your fingertips. I want to paint a portrait of your smile inside my eyelids. I become drops of warm rain melting away the snowdrifts at your ankles. You become the air as I emerge from a bottomless pool. You turn on lights around me and I see rooms I sit in. I see highways you have driven. I see orange birds flying, becoming the sun. I see your fingertips becoming birds. A flock of birds carries me to a dark room. You touch me. The room lights up. I am sitting on a small cloud. I rain and trickle down your curves. We drive for a while. We stop at a mirror. I see you in my reflection. We swim in the melted sun. A large bee lands. I see us, as we have been and will be, in each hexagon of its myoptic eye. I find a center and it is me. I touch you and again remember the bodies. I have memories of things yet to happen. I sit in a room and write words on a paper. I feel the cord that connects us, and wait to shorten it again.

Chords

I want to touch your skin again,
and slide in the curves
and angles of you.
I leave nothing behind
as I go into your eyes.
I leave everything behind
as you go into mine.
Amid giggles and little kisses
we talk of our insanity.
I listen to your heartbeat
as I fall asleep.
I want to sit between the
hemispheres of your brain
and rest a while.
Or slide down the shimmering
thread of existence
to a place where you rest.
I want to hear the symphonies
that dance around your fingertips.
I want to paint a portrait
of your smile inside my eyelids.
I become drops of warm rain
melting away the snowdrifts
at your ankles.
You become the air
as I emerge from a bottomless pool.
You turn on lights around me
and I see rooms I sit in.
I see highways you have driven.
I see orange birds flying,
becoming the sun.
I see your fingertips
becoming birds.
A flock of birds
carries me to a dark room.
You touch me.
The room lights up.
I am sitting on a small cloud.
I rain and trickle
down your curves.
We drive for a while.
We stop at a mirror.
I see you in my reflection.
We swim in the melted sun.
A large bee lands.
I see us, as we have been
and will be,
in each hexagon
of its myoptic eye.
I find a center
and it is me.
I touch you and again
remember the bodies.
I have memories
of things yet to happen.
I sit in a room
and write words on a paper.
I feel the cord that
connects us,
and wait to shorten it again.

< previous | next >

Personal | Professional | Poetry | Prose