Our Lampposts, By Stephen Sanders
The movie scene was closed from the public.
There was death on screen, they say.
Not a real death by a phantom or some other mysterious matter or person,
but a death that was forbidding.
A child hugged his mother, closing his hands on her coat, holding back tears.
We cry when we are sad, they say.
Sadness is a weak kiss.
The death was of a man whom stared at the stars at night, holding his dead wife within his heart.
Touching the glass to his lips, drinking.
This story is false, of course.
It's the chill that reaches the human heart, elaborating the psyche.
I know of a wife who loved her husband,
but when he died she cooed herself to sleep.
The life he lived was something more than we've seen.
It was majestic.
Our death was the very purpose to our reasoning:
our lampposts turn on in the darkness.
The Scene of What We Never Saw, By Stephen Sanders
I don't enjoy this company of lonely people, looking out at the sunset.
We gather in groups, drinking club soda.
Where did our time go? Fifty years has passed, alone.
We set our clocks back to mid-summer, laughter is sweet and red.
I cannot remember the last time I held a woman,
Her lips pacing, her eyes revealing mine.
I slept alone for the last fifty years on a couch,
Watching the same television shows: Eating the same food: Working.
Music plays in the background, softly like a pillow filling our void; our emptiness.
I wish you could hear the music play,
Filling my throat and arousing the mood to dance: Breathe in the poet.
Your hands are like leather, brushing against my leg,
Passing through my hair. Weakened by the stench of fragrance:
I want your mouth, pressing, tonguing mine. I want your hands moving, pulling my hair.
I want your hunger: your lustful heart. I want to lay my head against your belly.
I want the softness of a woman-- you're the woman.
We sit and watch the sunset: never moving, never changing, never living, never dying.
The movie scene was closed from the public.
There was death on screen, they say.
Not a real death by a phantom or some other mysterious matter or person,
but a death that was forbidding.
A child hugged his mother, closing his hands on her coat, holding back tears.
We cry when we are sad, they say.
Sadness is a weak kiss.
The death was of a man whom stared at the stars at night, holding his dead wife within his heart.
Touching the glass to his lips, drinking.
This story is false, of course.
It's the chill that reaches the human heart, elaborating the psyche.
I know of a wife who loved her husband,
but when he died she cooed herself to sleep.
The life he lived was something more than we've seen.
It was majestic.
Our death was the very purpose to our reasoning:
our lampposts turn on in the darkness.
The Scene of What We Never Saw, By Stephen Sanders
I don't enjoy this company of lonely people, looking out at the sunset.
We gather in groups, drinking club soda.
Where did our time go? Fifty years has passed, alone.
We set our clocks back to mid-summer, laughter is sweet and red.
I cannot remember the last time I held a woman,
Her lips pacing, her eyes revealing mine.
I slept alone for the last fifty years on a couch,
Watching the same television shows: Eating the same food: Working.
Music plays in the background, softly like a pillow filling our void; our emptiness.
I wish you could hear the music play,
Filling my throat and arousing the mood to dance: Breathe in the poet.
Your hands are like leather, brushing against my leg,
Passing through my hair. Weakened by the stench of fragrance:
I want your mouth, pressing, tonguing mine. I want your hands moving, pulling my hair.
I want your hunger: your lustful heart. I want to lay my head against your belly.
I want the softness of a woman-- you're the woman.
We sit and watch the sunset: never moving, never changing, never living, never dying.
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