Randy Plym is a poet and author from Virginia. He currently lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he’s writing a novel.
cross-eyed you came to see me
with rain drops on your eyebrows,
dawn light on your shoulders.
"you are a snowstorm,
melting on my tongue," you told me,
"the harvest moon,
where my search becomes my searching."
(your umbrella's beading)
"and you are an archipelago
where 13, 000 treasures bloom," I replied,
dredged from the sea."
(boots knocked against the doorframe)
when hail cracks my bedroom window
and scatters over my carpet like rifle casings –
headlights stretching over charcoal.
these days, I don't stay up penning haikus
about you blushing on the stairs,
poking from your quilt like winter's first tulip.
I don't grab a broom; I just trundle to the kitchen,
pour a mug of claret, lean out the window,
and watch the morning.
Sweat is waste, rearranged;
noting this, he hawked his oars
and let the bay carry him
the way space carries boulders.
And from his skiff, he tangoed
as neon pole-danced in raindrops
and sine waves
and sunk in clouds of cabernet;
he hummed the songs of jellyfish
and aged five years, ninety two days.
Beached now and sunburnt,
he staggers onto shore
as stars winch themselves up
from a tar-black sky,
and fog presses the moon
like a palm against a peephole.
He doesn't know the time.
He doesn't know anything at all.
He just swings
on the skeleton of a playground
that buckles at the joints and falls
and rattles like an unexpected guest.
On this Eve of Absolution