Love at Rest

Love at Rest

Love went down to wrestle death.
Now resting in the current,
love at best feels more like like.

A certain hue of pre-dawn light,
cobalt through an icy window,
I could say I somewhat like,

almost call out her name.
(Is this her bed I’m in or mine,
or am I sleeping in my van?)

Waking up from dead to numb,
from nothing much to shades of dawn,
I like not knowing where I am,

where time went, the short hand
from the long. Then certain esoteric
films, L’Eclisse, Mulholland Drive,

I start to roughly comprehend
and feel the need to write again
aimless like-songs in my head.

 

©James L. Ralston

 

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