The Sound
i
soft and cool, flowing
clean spring rain and the smell of lilacs
and I can't believe she
would ever love me
but still she goes pitter patter
like droplets on the roof top
the sound running down and
washing my face clean
not letting me lick my wounds
or forget her crushed velvet lips
on her white porcelain face
ii
I watched her sleep; listened to her breathing
not quite better than the taste of her
water from the wellspring
keeps me fresh, keeps me alive; I'm
not needy just desperate
I don't lie in her shadow but
I feel it passing over me
say you understand but don't really try
it's not what you wanted
but who cares how I feel?
don't overuse your words, they'll
come back and bite you
iii
this poem is a metaphor
my life, personal myth Davies would have said
not like a painting, more like a sound
not a sound, the sound
the sound of her voice, the sound of her heart
the sound of her breath
the sound of her love, her sex
her sound
her sound is my sound, the sound of my life
a rush of noise so beautiful it's terrifying
iv
I bought her a scarf and she gave me
my first French kiss
we were young and in love or maybe
just nervous and horny
yet I remember her touch like satin
the best of her was sound
I swam in a sea of aural beauty
she was my first love and her name
was Lisa
which will forever mean beautiful
to me
v
meeting her was easy. boom.
timpani and violins
cello and viola running their fingers
down my neck
and I would carress her then too with
my voice which is not pretty
but has moved a few in its day
and she was mine
not the right phrase: I was hers and
she locked me in her pocket, I hope
not on purpose
vi
leaving her was easy too
I was given no choice - easier than vacillation
watching her leave and listening to the sound
of her tears which
were really my tears
knowing it was over
still smelling the lilacs
still being washed clean by the rain
still being teased by her body
and still hearing the sound
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