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