back ~ home ~ up ~ next

 


 

 

Abiding

 

Come sit with me and tell me of

Your sense of what is and isnít love.

Keep talking as we bide our time;

Keep talking; wile away the hours.

Though certain, sure, of reasonís powers,

Iíll listen for the slanted rhyme

That every hesitation makes

When calculating mortal stakes;

It is the lingering of an eye,

Or maybe the lingering of a sigh,

Or the lingering of a careless touch

That lingers there a bit too much.

I think Iíll stay regardless of

What you say is and isnít love.

 

Robert Crawford

 

 

© 2000; originally printed in The Formalist.
Reprinted by permission of the author.

 

Background by
Barracuda


back ~ home ~ up ~ next