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J. Tarwood

Girl Watcher


Pale in summer skirts,

young women walk

away, saying



I used to want

in the simplest way,

loud as a boy

with his first drum.


Is gazing grazing?


Heart levitates  

for other men’s daughters,

their steadfast abracadabra


 blessing breath.

Eternity, Absence
(After Huchin)

You don’t know, 

but perhaps once you saw

how things leaving

might appear to be staying.


Always you yearned

to be rain, cloud

awakened, reason itself

greening grass.


Me, I yearned

to be your path,

proper dirt for the shoeless,

no cuts, no scratches.

Always you yearned

to be a river without

channels, dream wicked

and startling, loose

blade of sleep

clattering across rooftops.


Me?  A hand

on your wrist, a whisper

in your ear, skin sequence

for winter caressing

your back, kissing your navel.


Impossible embrace:

me: ash: you: water.

At best a fragment

of you, at best

a trail without tracks.

Our damned truth:

you’re always leaving

yet seem to be staying.


Yes.  Always you yearned

to be rain.  Me, the

least: the path transmogrifying

in your storm.

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