This Delirium

For our purposes,
this delirium will do.
Ride me through the bright
wilderness of worldliness,
woo me with riddles and rough kisses.

Of all my hits and misses,
this one depletes me
most extravagantly. Not only that,
but my fingers feel more deeply
when they feel you. 

No wonder quite like
the wonder of the body.
No poetry quite
like the poetry of need. 

-r. miller

11.24.17

What is it that looms beyond
these minutes, that ambiguous presence
whose splayed hand contains
the rain storms and metallic suns
of Decembers past? When
did I see you last? It might have been
in the corridors of a dream,
but I have no proof of this. Rather,
what I have is a sequence of colors
and their corresponding sounds.
This room, lit by the little miracle
of your once-being-here, a dull glow
steadily tapering into darkness.
I had some things I’d wanted to tell you.
Do they still matter? Surely
the fact that they persistently arise
in my gutted heart like frost
on leaves of grass counts for something.
Not much, I’d reckon, but
my own reckoning is of equal worth.
I’d like to look you in the eyes again.
I’d like the feel of your lips
against mine for the first time
and every time after.
I’d like for you to know definitively
that I’ve been thinking about you.

-r. miller

11.17.17

One more narrative thrust.
Certain kinds of trust
ramble along the mind’s interior
without any introduction,
doing their own thing,
singing careless hymns.
More often, I’m startled
by the grim face I always seem
to be wearing when
the angels come jostling.
Time for a new hustle.
Autumn wives rustle fingerprints
with slick and sinewy
motions of the spine.
Further down the line,
my memory begins
to anthologize itself
and gets real dickish about it.
Just once, I’d like to sleep
through my alarms.
My anxieties.
The feeding frenzy in my chest.

-r. miller

11.13.17

Distracted by the pangs,
not a moment in sight
to advance splinters.
Dawn fringes
astride the weight of the womb.
Jurisdiction matters in our life across the hall.
The wall reaches out to touch
where our faces have been,
and in a manner of speaking.
Nothing was my discovery.
It might be that description matters less than I credit it
and that these perspectives are but coarse strokes of brush
that manifest an unsteady portrait.
It’s true my eyes are water
and so too my fingers, thrumming
hard gloss of book
while energy degrades energy
beneath a beguiling moon.

-r. miller

11/10/17

I like the silhouettes
this uncertainty paints
across the floor. The
boring zest suffused
with shy contempt.
Translucent platoons of descriptors
come marching through
a door in my spinal column.
I’ve barely begun.

I am inured to the sun
and the grief
that lives inside of it,
and I shall dance,
in a somewhat
acceptable way.

This adventure is only a paragraph,
so you said, and
ran a hand across
my dreary scalp.
Then, we buttered up
the cobbled path
beneath our feet,
sliding wistfully
and wonderfully into crisis.

-r. miller

11/2/17

Coming up
ivory waters lavish.
Forewarning
of prize to ravish
unsightliness
and demure withering.
Wordless
and like.
Implosions of description.
For restriction
to spite
the untenable right,
leaves fortitude first,
a riddle of spit.
Valor, its
abject absence.
We undo by delay
the frightening tryst
and list
the ways.
Certain of our days.
Where limit our scope?