there's an antique feel that I'm not sure is me

As when the sun settles hot on black pavements, this post could be about nothing.

Because my internet at home doesn't work, I feel less inclined to use my computer to write... and less inclined to use any computer to write. So I write by hand, but then I give up after an exercize for class frustrates me and my words seem only motions and carrying-ons without goal and without drive. Last night as I started toward sleep, however, I thought of some lines--lines that might have nothing to do with anything, but sounded like starts to something. Maybe I'll try to take them somewhere here.


That morning when you found me beneath
Gallons and gallons of leaves,
My weathered hand poked upward, stretching
And pulling lines of skin
Till your cold fall-finger grazed my rigid creases.
Ones where the settling of dirt
Made white palms antique grey.
You neither wrapped your palm around
My wrist to pull, nor jerked
My elbow from its joint; you merely
Let your fingers glide
To smear away the grime. And through
Dampened leaves I stole glimpses there
Of your beard, its dripping down
Your chin that whet my want
For milk--but stove-warmed milk.
With tinges of banana, like one breakfast shared
With books in our laps and plates lopsided
By jams and toasts and yogurts and
Chipped mugs, offered by and taken from
Those early-rising, flowered few.


Well... this is all but complete, I'll have to keep working on it... and post more later. Now is lunch-time. Mmmm.