This is where we meet,
crawling through coiled telephone wires and cables.
We are voices passing underground,
sonic beeps flying with the sound waves of the air.
We are caught in a spider's web of sound traps,
tape recordings and cellular phones of strangers.
This is where we meet,
on acetate tape that spins around and around.
Twice your thoughts and mine were ripped,
yet I tried to splice those fragmented
lines of songs together.
And we travel in envelopes
with stamps of long necked birds.
I am in your songs.
You are the guitar chords strumming messages,
once cryptic,clever, now,almost on the edge of clear.
We hear the sweetest sounds from the rapture
of sensual desire as it heightens.
Yet, a touch away, a day behind,
before the voice sends its warning,
I feel the texture of your being,
when I touch the cotton that was on your body,
when I smell the sage that purifies and sweetens the air.
This, rocks me to sleep,
rocks me to madness.
You, run through my being
happy
being outraged
being loved
being played ?
Where do I find you ?
When will you be there ?
I listen carefully to the language of your words,
and your body, your secret storm.
This, is all I know.
I am caught between your doelike eyes
almost pleading
and amidst a rose garden.
I reach for the one with the thorn
that cuts me.
I am bleeding.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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