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Origami Moonlight: Collected Love Poems of Paul Hina 2009-2012

Page 8

by Paul Hina

old dreams

  of fingers and mouths, clumsy feet beneath

  the water, nightswimming with all the snakes

  of the moonlight slithering across the willowy

  water that races up our skin

  154

  she's a slow motion mover while i'm

  watching, time bends backwards to

  show me the muscles in her hands

  as she moves those fingers from her

  ear to her neck, stretching them across

  her shoulder like some splendid, fleshy

  spider,

  and when she lifts that lovely head

  and her icy blue eyes shock me with

  their frenzy of a freeze, time speeds

  up and i'm dizzy with dithers and hums,

  speechless, clutching at the air to stop

  the world from spinning, shutting the

  whole damn clock down, keeping her

  just as she is—remarkable and young

  —startled by the stillness of the stars

  stuck in her daydream eyes

  155

  the yellow ruffles of her blouse—soft as

  meringue—are a cool drink on a sweltering

  day,

  and the cream of her shoulders are scoops

  enough of vanilla flesh, waiting for spoons

  of passionate fingers,

  and the flimsy white fabric of her skirt

  reminds me of snow forever falling,

  descending down her thighs as fingers

  trace each snowdrop's descent from the

  skies of wintry dreams—the kind that

  fall on the eve of christmas, making a

  million angels sparkle in the crystalline

  glass of her eyes

  156

  she's the shape of

  the darkness, the sound

  in the silence.

  i can taste her when

  drifting through thinner air,

  and i can touch her through

  the numb of almost sleep.

  and when i fall

  through the veil,

  i fall for her,

  into her,

  deep in the waters

  of a dream world she's

  shaped for me

  from those pretender hands

  of hers

  —so soft and stained by

  my sleepy kisses.

  157

  i've got all these wishes left,

  hiding in the clouds of my head,

  growing and grumbling, waiting

  to rain.

  and one day, even if it's dark and

  my days are numbered,

  i will open up every cloud like uncracking

  the lightning and just let the wishes pour

  all over my fading flesh—your fingers

  on my face, the showers of your kisses,

  the curtains of your hair falling over my head,

  feeling for more rainy wishes to feed

  the unquenchable lips of a love at last

  gasp

  158

  there are images i've collected,

  vast piles of mental pictures i

  flip through everyday, looking

  for the right curve, that splendid

  smile, to find that time a kiss was

  caught on the serrated edge of

  her criminal hair—when she stole

  my breath away, hid it in that sun

  drenched golden drapery of hers

 

  and behind those drapes of wind

  blown hair is a show, a never ending

  performance of our hands reaching

  for each other in the dark, voices

  crying out for a touch, a touch a

  picture can't replace

  159

  when you touch me,

  it's as sweet as sucrose

  in my veins,

  and a rushing of that sweetest

  blood throbs like a buzz in my

  head and swims with the stutters

  of the syllables that are scattered

  in the wake of all your dizzying

  kisses,

  spinning me into the depth of a

  dance only poets and pirouettes

  have plumbed

  160

  her hair is swept to the side

  by the wild hands of the wind,

  her smile holds the secrets of

  what pushes the flowers from

  the dirt in spring,

  what gives hope to the deep waters

  on despairing days,

  and what gives art to those that

  reach for it,

  but those eyes carry something

  so soft and untouchable

  to other human hands,

  even the stars inside those

  dark drapes of lashes

  don't know what air is there

  in the space between every wish

  and no tomorrows at all

  161

  the way she stretches one perfect leg

  over another perfect leg's knee is neither

  labored or conscious, just happens like

  some vine, over time, taking over some

  tender tree,

  and her face, the memory of her voice,

  unconsciously grows around my heart,

  pulling me closer to the magical mud

  beneath life's feet, the same pattering

  i hear under the dirt of sleep—soft and

  feminine, the frolics of her footfalls as

  she runs back to me

  162

  there are curves on her body that

  turn my thoughts to hieroglyphs,

  there are words that evaporate

  on my tongue when she touches

  my lips,

  and every kiss is an explosion of

  poems yet to be written, paintings

  that will never be painted but in her

  eyes—all that art is lost, only caught

  in fragments like subconscious

  glimpses of maybe-ghosts,

  and when i look out into the world

  and see the night snow falling into

  chaos and confusion, i catch a shiver

  like her fingers were descending from

  my neck to my chest, tracing the sound

  of the song she's left in my heart

  163

  her face is as soft as the dust that

  dances in the light that surrounds

  it.

  she's a ghost outside the memory

  machine, playing old movies with

  every move she makes.

  and there's something slow and

  sensuous about the strobing rhythm

  of her limbs coming alive.

  and her shine is as warm as looking out

  from a home into snow,

  or remembering—confused reality

  —a kiss, projected close, like a

  hand pressing into a warm thigh.

  164

  i've been so hungry to see you, to

  find your face in a crowd of other

  faces, to feel your fingers on days

  of rain, to hear your voice as i drift

  away to dream

  but you will not feed me, your face is

  as distant as the most distant star, your

  fingers are only ghosts in the sounds of

  a storm, and your voice is only a mirage

  as i travel into these sleepy nighttime

  deserts, searching for you over every

  dune, through the haze of heat and

  hallucination whispers

  165

  if you were gone,

  i'd make a god to scold,

  i'd draw pictures of you endlessly

  —in words and in lines—<
br />
  make maps for me to find you

  in my sleep,

  and if there's no heaven,

  if the afterlife is dark with silence,

  my unrequited electricity will light

  the way back to you and

  build a place for us to play

  166

  she's a miracle of measurements,

  a beautiful chaos of artful lines,

  a soft structure of the sweetest curves,

  and every inch would take hours to

  explore—to uncover all her music,

  her intricate architecture,

  but she's full of rooms,

  deep spaces full of stars and wishes,

  planets of hope peopled with love

  and tears and kisses,

  her skin is made from a thousand

  silken walls of hands reaching out,

  endless fronds full of fingers waiting to

  grab the heart,

  hold it with the most delicate touch,

  let it travel her country,

  let it run through her beautiful borders

  of lush, living colors dappled everywhere

  like some impressionistic playground

  167

  your little hand and thin wrist

  rest weightlessly on my hip,

  sex has shocked us,

  evaporated all our energy into the

  air we breathe,

  and all that lovely air is scented by

  something delicate growing around

  our flesh,

  a floral planet we must care for,

  and so i grab the flower of your hand,

  raise it to my mouth,

  kiss the petals of every finger,

  and swim across your skin

  with my skin,

  winding and unwinding

  around every last scented secret

  168

  her elegance comes and goes,

  rises and falls as i age,

  sometimes the clarity of her

  shape, the perfect timbre of

  her voice startles me from sleep

  and i lie in the starkness of

  the truth of her,

  and then she's a wisp floating

  away, a tiny cotton filament of

  a dandelion wish,

  and i can't find her,

  or hear her,

  or catch her,

  but i'll happily ride the hope

  of that wish through the waste

  of another wicked, white winter

  169

  she moves with the deliberateness

  of sentient water, flowing from here

  to there with effortless grace

  like wind dancing over the trees,

  she tickles leaves into autumn songs,

  and all you can do is watch, admire

  her dance, hope that, as she flows away,

  the beautiful spring tides will return her,

  or at least the rain will dapple her

  —someday—

  like a dance across the memory, a tickle

  that wakes the autumn music written on

  the feet of spring's dewiness

  170

  she drapes a purple flower

  over her hips,

  petals droop

  down her thighs

  and float

  just above the skin

  of her storms,

  and the air between

  the petals and the flesh

  is the air

  where truth is crafted,

  where wishes

  and new flowers

  are born

  171

  she's a marvelous mania of long limbs,

  a chaos of movement that manifests

  mental maps so clear that i could easily

  trace my way back to her, calm her cubist

  nature with meditation hands giving way

  to soft brushed kisses, paint on her all my

  my wishes of rhythms, and watch her slide

  back into her sensual mania, memorize the

  shape of her from the long flash of her shine,

  like holding a shadow in a daguerreotype

 


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