4-25 Split Night

In my UNCW era, I had a passionate and obsessive love affair with a girl from Chapel Hill, who attended a philosophy class at UNCW. This was before I knew Jesus. This was written when that relationship ended. A life-long friend Diane said a most striking and accurate synopsis: “Maybe you loved something that was not there.”

 

Split Night

 

Street lights glare through blinds—

branding the wall with blazon bars.

 

Poetry gestures: cattails cry dewdrops down whiskered stems—

feathery clouds nestle duck-egg-blue skies—

starched capitals in spilt alphabet soup

filling attic floorboard cracks.

 

Heidegger’s “house of Language” is rubble and ruins.

Metaphysics nests in the loft,

Its droppings splatter on the desk.

Hope sinks into the blotter.

 

No more jet hair tickling my nose.

No more strawberry kisses.

Five cans of Colt 45 guns the evening down.

 

In icy waters, hope clings to threads of light.

The water bed is frozen over—sleet sheets

are walls of ice.

 

Clamping a raw pillow

numb all over,

 

I fall through the sheer bed

into a crevasse of sheet sides

narrowing into a vast abyss.

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