Friday, February 26, 2016

A Poem

Our Frosty Windows

Our closely-guarded oblivion
only suffices for the moment.
Laughter keeps rearing its young within us,
summoning its strength from our delicacy.
As the moon climbs through our
frosty windows, illuminating filigree and
panes, we almost believe this frozen hour
could be what it was when we
searched each other for nothing
and the comedies of our absent minds
collided.  This night barely
sustains a second glance.  We both feed
pregnancies of chance encounters, unaware
we are born in this light.  Our sadness
kicks within us, tenderly stroking some
notion that entered us in conversation.
The life we carry from bout to spell
is not ours.  You say our bed is big enough
for whatever comes.  You collect me
in your hands, unknowing, bewildered
by what you see in me, growing as I die,
as we both share the space intended
for one.

Published in Birmingham Arts Journal.

Joel Fry

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