Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

It’s another crisp,
September day.
Afraid to trust you say,
So both our steps
Are cautious, guided.
Still, it’s in the little gestures,
The intimate silences,
That I can see
(We could be care-free).

Remember when we
Cupped our ears to
That crowned shell?
We heard different things.
You heard the ocean breeze,
I heard the sea.

And I guess that I’m caught
Between the physical trappings
Of your moon, and its
Gravitational pull.
So I swim:
Under your sleeves,
Inside your jeans.

In and out, with the tide,
We continue to sway.
Dazing away this lazy
Sunday afternoon
Between the sheets.

Gently, I pull my left arm,
Which is wrapped
Around the elegant,
Dark curls of your hair,
And move you closer –
Hoping to ensure
More secure Z’s.

With your sleeping head
Upon my chest, and the steady
Rise and fall of your breath,
Your sleeping beauty
Radiates trust, and volumes
Of a colorful world, eclipsed
By the shadows surrounding
Your waking words.

“Can you move over a little, please?”

You didn’t seem to notice my adjustment,
And something about this minor detail
Shakes my mind from its lethargic ease.
After a minute or two, you’re back to sleep.

And I begin to imagine –
What thoughts are drifting around in
The gray areas of your resting head?

Ocean Black And White


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