THERE IS A SILENCE SOMEWHERE
Michael Arthur Finberg
If you and I were
like rivers my Darling,
tributaries….flowing,
everywhere converging
gurgling like a silence,
scary and quietly turning.
Inside long and velvet
sheening, more like branches,
mannequins, whose vulnerable
elbows would land like a
bumpy mist….
I see you, my Darling,
as a spider weaving her web,
around me and whose long
and wintry fingers are
longing for these tributaries,
that are so sticky and thin.
I have found that these fingers,
are easily bruised, that their
skeletal stutter is breakable
and easily burned.
Your love also is easily pulled,
and easily raised, so easily lifting
is your love into me, its spreading
moss is a greeting of something, so
tightly pink and pressed like a guest.
I can see my Darling,
your neck’s anxious sighings,
inviting me quickly like these
dripping drips, I can see
these drops exposed because
they are so near, like drip
drops from a leaking roof.
Your dark eyes hear these
plops, whose plopping sings,
of your yearning for me,
whose plippity plops are
searching so knowingly and
plippingly, in a plopping sort
of sadness, in this distance.
There is a silence,
somewhere here in these
trees which mirrors your
measure endlessly, whose
everywhere is here in
these fingers that see
me, speedingly, spreading
us outwardly.
And than like butterflies,
flittering my Dear, your lips
bring in a darkness, whose here
is a when on your face, and
therefore inquiring if these
white mountains could hear
and be us.
