With Nothing In Hand. Poem by RIC BASTASA

early morning wakings
are fine with me
what with a fuming coffee
on the table
and this outgoing silence
of the kitchen
what with all these unfolded
blankets and
pillows with your hair still
un-gathered from the hell
of our unguarded moments
last night and more nights to
come?

sipping coffee is fine with me
in front of this personal computer
where my fingers traverse
a labyrinth of words and sentences
trying to satiate what this
thirst has long provided: an empty
throat,

a bloated thought, this sense of
trying to gather everything inside
your arms, and then

realizing that nothing is kept
forever, that each moment is just
a passing breath,

that no matter how deep you plunge
yourself into the abyss of your longings
you surface again

with nothing in hand.