in my fathers home we have these many rooms,
but how close do you want to stand?
hand poised, hope poised, mid-belief down to
a white knuckle faith and you know, (as close as
we can) the heart has never been a hotel, for
the first time, all of these strangers and pilgrims,
and your still small voice and
is any of this bearable?
there, still there is this unending that draws us
toward our pale contours of becoming;
the two of us, with one
missing, just the two, but barely,
but one still is missing, and the looking
and the fine whisper of our vision easing every answer.
coaxing, breakingly kind, holding the candle until
it is lit. and with silhouette revealing how all
once was a once, and heartbreak and is any
of this still bearable? testing the waters gently
are you watching. turning anothers directions;
are you watching? there must be a witness to
the exhaust, while she is staring
while he has uncovered his shadow against
the cement sky,
and it must be cold, she is crying,
and is this still my story?
in this morning, in this season, where should
i return these things of elseone, where would
i even begin kneel, to slide my legs, inch at a static inch,
just to see if oh god merely a story,
barely, what must empty for
what to fill, what you have displaced; dreaming
of this hallway, and the warmth, threatened
by every open door.
mikl paul is 23. he lives in california and soon santa fe. he spends his time writing poems, and following a dream without betraying its faith.