like a knife, blunted with too much cutting
    like the sun, brandished behind cloud
    like a blown kiss only the wind catches
    and releases, like the voice of drums
    or my heart's covert quickening

    dull because the days end with
    or without joy, dull to the passing
    of hands over my vacant skin
    to the slow business of living
    at the mercy of calendars

    dulled having spoken and not been
    honoured with heeding, dull to the
    grey of dull thoughts, pall of ordinary
    hurts. benumbed with kindnesses
    depleted, last chances long since used,
    the dull timbre and hollow language of need.

    dull as sloth, as the weariness of surrender,
    dull the way your absence becomes
    a seed's impossible enterprise
    underground, the dull curve of its capsule,
    its inwardness, a small locked country
    whose only key lies outside its borders.

28 November 2001   22:16 hours
anger { } the house of my beloved