Robert Spiegel

Holy Skin
 
Since you can’t say it out
loud, write it clearly – first
the vowels. The light here is
 
failing. There’s not much you can
count on to get yourself home, maybe
sympathy. When you took a break
 
you could see water birds over
the desert. Too blue for words.
The last time you saw her you
 
held on for hours. In time, even
skin gets tired. But you never
thought you’d slip so far away.
 
The taste of her holy skin, as it
moves and gains purchase – the light.

White Walls
 
When you come this close, the
running stars, lower on the water-
side, tears appear in the blue sky.
 
Almost cuttings, the surface of
white walls – everything you put
aside – not crying any longer.
 
So loose, you should start over.
Think again – how does it go?
The surface of the river explains
 
very little – the infatuation with
sky, the need for drugs, even the
weight. You could fall in love here.
 
Trying so hard to let yourself go,
to fall, drifting deeper into nothing.

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal