tom taylor - by the long way round

By the long way round, by the longer way stills the heart’s disturbances unequal’d by the task itself a long way between her and here, more than a letter from the mind’s empty corridors starting with ‘how long is long enough?’ Clears the air for other, larger sentiments of the day. Like, would we touch and if so how long is long enough, without exaggerating, answer me that one in the darkness of the sign of longing emanates from your lips and skin surrounds the rest of you resting…. Nada the poetry dog nestles between my feet on the floor in her attitude of patience and an afforded light from her constant heart which warms me at night on the bed around the way and waving one paw free enough to declare the day yours and mine long enough to call the time our own for once wanting nothing more than the longest yard claims our falling years among these longings and sensations which come again, again, they rest and call us out again.
By the hand asided, hands are linked across the water in the air which clings from intent to design the hands have their way waving in the time between spoke and wheel, affirmed at their intents and purposes by a signing lingo which makes fingers touch in a circular fusion undescribed yet felt like an open door opening again if you care to read this line from the inner marks left upon the grind of the wave on the shore clearing all hands on deck for the remainder of the voyage has you pinned up on the wall of my locker next to my pallet on the floor of the ship which takes us all along the coast of anywhere you’ve been to call in ports and distances across the flat blue waves of what comes to be known as the place itself unchanging and yet hanging around in the question of what’s wanted and what’s known and what’s been there before now and then you touch me deeply enough to call out in the code of centuries hanging baskets of hands are worn around the neck to ward off evils too deep to describe them make the day our own lingering tempos of bark and breath, or word and deed met in the air enfolding like something newer on the line of the quest as it carried us forward into newer days left alone among the shining spires of the cities of the heart and mind no less unreal than time itself which rings and splatters covering us with the residues of its hands.
By the heart reminded of unceasing tempo and scrim, the longer while recalls the place we came from in the long ago destiny of hours and flowers, none of which were ever exchanged but only intentioned into memory by the absence we sheltered from who we were after all unknown but not bedeviled from the heart and flours in the bread of life itself reminded us to sing once more, an old fat hippie with feet benumbed by smoking, puffing up the sand dunes with one last journey in the back of his mind, the days slipping quietly from your heart to mind makes the time shorter than knots upon the tangled skein of life and breath, how the heart mines its own destiny quite apart from intention or manner. As if you’d know or not how the heart’s particles are made of light and breath in the darkness of night flowing across these sands of mine and yours. So there’s a question and answer given at the same time in three distinct paragraphs which encompass their simplicity in segments which are not entirely thought out nor even clearly felt but which come from this deeper place of entry and discard, or, if, passing from the tempos we once knew in the dance, clumsy and unrenowned, now the hours are more than sliding into the ocean we live beside but surf up on the shore like a remembered locale framing the terms and seasons into color and narrative and eloquence reminding nothing of nobody in the outer rails which pool about us, our longing our hands and our hearts breathing on the tempo which most calls the day another dance described from these scratchings on the wall along the way to the patio outside in the sun where nothing waits but sings again.