Twelve a.m. Every Day, or Maybe it was Four

Putting the night between us
Like a bassinet without
Wheels and obstructing space,

Like the way you never wanted
Me to remember the first,
The end and the last of it.

You want me to remember
You swimming in a closet full
Of low cut evening dresses-- clothes--

Like a sunbather drifting
On the ebb and flow of sand
Washed in by the desert sea.

A place that leaves cemeteries
Lacking chinese food,
Lettuce rows and scars like

The outdoors lacks all of this
Snow that you brought inside.

Any explaination leaves the chemicals
Lacking, placing anotmical biology
On par with the science of phrenology,

Like the theory that gravitation can be held
Responsible for what scientific method
Says about the hearts secret inner workings.

Trying to find a place
Where what is, was and will
Ever be can become whole, coagulated.
Conjoined fingers and toes
Can not be made by touching alone,
Like when seperation fills the gap:

When you diagnose and speak of
Heart problems, attacks, failures and transplants,
Remember that you can't expect to
Be best friends with everyone.


copyright 2006 Samuel Lewis Nelson