Forgive me the porcelain hours of hard glaze,
when as a child I became broken by laughter
of children in that summer church basement.
Those others knew jokes of morning's surface,
their hollow, knowing laughter flung like confetti
and falling as sadness into my early black hair.
Forgive me for playing a small Spanish guitar,
caressing its neck, admiring its slow curves.
Young melodies sprang from desirous fingers.
I knew you would come from beneath music.
Forgive me for falling so far into paintings.
Forgive my plunging into melancholy words.
To fall this way is a diving into sin's ripples.
But painters and poets gesture toward you.
Forgive my affection turning blue to dark blue,
going silken into ribbons and wending freely,
curling where they curl, in renegade moments.
How unusual this apology!
You'll never even hear it.
You stand there in symbols.
What happened to me falls
below the curve of your smile.
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck