Fluid Movements Poem by Uriah Hamilton

I was going downtown
to meet an exotic girl in the open café
where the children laugh and play
along the innocent hours of summer.

I was wondering
if sunlight was dancing in her eyes
like the fluid movements of ancient poetry
composed for preeminent deities?

I'm always astonished contemplating possible love
and mysterious journeys
while on amorous pursuits.

I've lived too long as an unseen ghost
traversing avenues of funeral flowers,
too heartbroken and much too dower.

I was caught in a dream of her mouth
amid conversations at train stations,
pleasantly entangled in every word.

We walked to the river to gather
stones and utter prayers
where former lovers wed beside the bridge.

If I could keep her perfumed handkerchief
in my ecstatic possession,
perhaps, this continuing bewildering existence
would seem less cruel.

I picked up a flower petal on the sidewalk
and made the sign of the cross as I thought of her:
I always attempt to ward off
the power of dissatisfaction
from incomplete rendezvous and failed connections.

There's always a risk of failure
to all these sentimental thoughts and threatening tears,
but every forward energy must coalesce
in the unzipping of her flowery dress
and the kissing of her neck at summer dusk.

At dawn, I'm certain, I'll weep
at the bottom of her apartment stairs
as I leave and gently enter the morning rain.