Monday, Jan. 22, 2007 - 1:46 p.m.

I'm still defected, just tidying up my laptop and wanted to shelve these somewhere.

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[somewhere i have never travelled]

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

e e cummings

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Postcard blues

Especially with my head pounding
and lying helpless in my bed
I long for you and your expert hands
To ease this white heat from my head

And you would boast that you knew
All the pressure points inside
And you could just as easily kill me
Beneath the desire that I hide

But as your patient I knew
That your healing powers had grown
From a sore that's far, far deeper
Than this heart where the pain was born

With my head again clear
I think of words to send to you
To coax you back to my side
But always leave out "I love you"

And then through my front door
A picture of a faraway land
And to with love on the back
And once again I reach for my pen

Cowboy Junkies

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