Patient Silences, Clapton

Keev Ó Baoill

i want to write poetry for you

about you,
            basking in the half
baked morning light,
bringing you coffee,
or you, for me

I want to write poetry for you,
                                                about you
that captures the exact proclivity of
our love,
            (or mine)
for you.

Of the hyperbolic
sentiment(s) of our
deepest understandings
of one another.

I want to write poetry
for you, about you

            little poems and love poems,
                                      and strange off kilter
                           sex poems
And poetry about the first time I saw you — and
            poems about the knowing queerness of my eye catching yours
                                   and of so much untapped potential and
Of my stomach dropping,
And about how you
make me feel otherworldly, like
I belong in museums and galleries and canonical literature
with people who can really feel,
                                              and really articulate
I want to write poetry about you, about falling in love, again,
                                                 with you.
About how we barely belong in the same galaxy, the same universe, let alone
                                                     the same planet, the same city, the same Room.

About how sure I am

About your golden hair in the summer’s dusk, about
wandering with you, lying with you, romanticising with

About your life,
          and mine, and
                    dancing in the

Oh, to write

Oh, to have the desire to write
To listen to a song, to read a poem
To sit, basking, in its presence

to share an orange,

To watch a bird tip-toe up a stone platform, waiting on the train
          The flick of its head,
the glinting autumn light

Oh, to live in a home full of friends, to feel, with ease—
the laughter and tears

To build a home with you, and
    with you.

To think, as the most leisurely do,
of all the things that make me pause
            of a bird perched on his seat
Flitting about his day.

I think, as people often do, of the light touch
Of a friend, a lover,
                      Of my lover

Of a moment’s embrace, of a chuckling of laughter
in a moment’s disconnect

The calm delight of a day gone past.

I hope, one day, to wake to you
                                                            (all of you)

And find that time has gone

To know that it was spent,
in such moments—
            over nibbles of rye toast,
And quiet, patient silences

I hope one day, to wake to you,
And find such fullness in a life,
and with you