Repositioning from a Start or: The Love-Letter
     First Draft. The day after a rainstorm, when clouds lean over thickly and stumble like drunkards, air hastily slides in a dozen directions. The speed of weather makes me feel as though my mind were taking time-lapse images aware only one second of each ten,

This is a poor explanation. You have reason to be proud of your ability to travel unattainable distances. You dream aloud and visibly to others. Clouds and wind are poor and tenuous symbols for your movements compared to mine. Allow me to reposition this love-letter.

     Second Draft.

Seconds after a footrace, when athletes 
lean over heavily and breathe like the near-drowned,
adrenaline and endorphins reward the swift and dedicated.
The speed of racers makes me feel
as though my legs are palsied and aching.
I try to succeed vicariously through them, I

Another false start. The ease with which you move through concepts and the simplicity with which you divine connections between mundane objects and high emotions gives me a sense of permanence in your thought. Your eyes are metallic objects, gathering electric charge and magnetic force from towering steel structures and sinking mylar balloons. I hope that your talents are a reflection of the inspiration you claim I am; you claim your skill and genius come from part of me in you.

     Third Draft.

As the lightness fades, when pieces of the world
come in through my pores like grains of sand,
our eyes open and bodies slowly separate with lingering touches.
The totality of my mind's eradication makes me feel
closer to you and vacant, as though waiting for you
to take up the space I've emptied for you

It is a feeble and sickly gift indeed which means nothing to its recipient. Though it can be said, at times, that the symbol of our physical love is a vigorous, sanguine one. Even at such times, you move faster than I. This letter is about being lost in the wake of one who cuts through white sheets of water on twisting blades of shoulders and steel propellers.

     Fourth Draft.

As the blade is withdrawn, when the victim
leans against a column of air and shakes like a skeptic before God,
he has already forgotten his assassin's face. 
The knife's speed and certainty makes him feel
as though its swiftness was not the attacker's, 
but an attribute of the hardened steel singing in her hand.

The victim hunches over,
letting himself rain onto the floor.
It's all happening
so quickly. 
Each breath is a labor,
each step its own race. Edges of sense and mind 
blur, become lighter, 
and touches must be sharp 
to be felt.

©1999 Timothy A. Clark