there and back again

I’m putting off writing a short story for class tomorrow; instead I’ll post things I’ve already written and gotten sick of!  An elegy and then a creepy poem which I wrote after reading a bunch of Thomas Gunn poems about the serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer.  Go out and read the Gunn poems; they’re a little overwhelming and disturbing but I think quite lovely.  I’m not posting them here in order to give myself a fair shot.

The Coat

The lights go on, stumble to their feet
Too late, it’s already dark and I’m waiting
For you on the stoop of my house
In the January snow.

Or rather, I wait for the heavy smoke
Of your winter coat, the stately swing,
Of your approach.  Only you could dance
A jig in such a coat, shoulders as broad
As I was tall.  I made mountains from its folds
And climbed them to be with you.

On the other side of the park, you step out
Into the street, into the path of your cab
And you’re an old man who pretends too well:
Your torch song of youth is all run down.

What can you see through the heavy air,
Each noise is wrapped in muffling muck,
That particular cushion of salt and trash
And slush, native to city streets in winter?

You lay quiet, your coat gathered a shroud
Of snow, a frosting of ice on windowpane check.
That coat had buttons of tarnished brass,
They had a sheen you had to hunt for,
Like sequins at the bottom of the punch bowl
When the party’s all run down.

I’ve still got your winter coat.  Its ragged cuffs
Keep my fingers safe in winter and it sweeps
The floor for me, too.  And when I need a lift,
It picks me up and carries me down the street.

Distance makes the heart grow weak

The winter wind that cracks trees
And paints the girls, wearing woolen tights,
Adorning my nighttime stoop,
Glittering, seems to originate
Somewhere near my heart.
I’ve has got a longing lately

To press my cheek against           
Bleached bones, ribbed temples.
The pulsing calm of youth
Can move between bodies,
Ice to steam, I embrace
What little they can give.

Those girls, they wobble and shake
They lose their coats, bare their backs.
Their drunken, scraped up knees
Have got an elusive gleam
That can heat up ice on windowpanes
Where some may choose to watch

The way that summer constrains itself,
Drapes itself in the crushed velvet
Folds of party dresses on the bodies
Of young girls on my stoop
Who sweet talk the doorbell
But never come inside.