Midnight Outside Novinger
“Midnight Outside Novinger”
I hate poems about the spring,
Endless descriptions of utopian weather,
Infinite words about that endless perfection
That bonds the equinox to the solstice
Expounded by every poet from Chaucer to cummings.
I am bored by the sun, disinterested in the trees,
And I have little use for the thawing blooms of daffodils.
No, give me the night and the stars,
Cold enough to make me regret forgoing my jacket.
Give me the chill of the hood of my car
And the warmth of your form against mine,
Give me the endless glimmers of foreign suns
Whispering their messages across endless time and space.
Give me distant thunders over the horizon, far away from here.
And give yourself to me, myself to you,
And let me be reborn in your embrace.
Let me whisper minute breezes into your ears,
Rising from the winter of my solitude
To grow again, alive, brushing the red petals of your lips
And leaning in to awkwardly press them to mine,
Drinking your Easter wine under that endless April sky.
-4/24/06
I hate poems about the spring,
Endless descriptions of utopian weather,
Infinite words about that endless perfection
That bonds the equinox to the solstice
Expounded by every poet from Chaucer to cummings.
I am bored by the sun, disinterested in the trees,
And I have little use for the thawing blooms of daffodils.
No, give me the night and the stars,
Cold enough to make me regret forgoing my jacket.
Give me the chill of the hood of my car
And the warmth of your form against mine,
Give me the endless glimmers of foreign suns
Whispering their messages across endless time and space.
Give me distant thunders over the horizon, far away from here.
And give yourself to me, myself to you,
And let me be reborn in your embrace.
Let me whisper minute breezes into your ears,
Rising from the winter of my solitude
To grow again, alive, brushing the red petals of your lips
And leaning in to awkwardly press them to mine,
Drinking your Easter wine under that endless April sky.
-4/24/06