| Henry Quince |
Tristesseread by henry quince Quiet like this, with passion spent for now, curled close together, close to slipping over the hazy brink of sleep — what can we know here in this bed while breath and heart recover? Arms, legs, hips converse, and each small pressure reassures. So easy, this — at least (like money) while possessed. But how to measure past years of famine with the present feast? A childhood memory: the cocker spaniel and blue-point Siamese that shared a basket, nestling close in sleep. Oh to be dumb! — no sense of have or lack, and no perennial question: Is this love (again I ask it) or just as close to love as we can come? 
© Beatriz Martin-Vidal Henry Quince lives in Australia. He’s a recidivist wanderer who has the urge under control — for now. Maybe. He’s been published in The Chimaera, Umbrella, and a few other venues here and there. |