Jeffrey Bean

The Voyeur’s Blue from Issue 91/92

 

At night you fold your blouses, your hands are all I see.

At night you smooth those creases, your hands are all I see.

At noon your window’s blank with sun; your window watches me.

 

Standing in my study, I see you argue with your man.

I lean, tired, in my study, watch you argue with that man.

If you’ve got my lust for leaving, I’ve got two tickets to Japan.

 

Sometimes I climb my maple tree, and watch you from the air.

Sometimes I climb my maple tree, look down on you mid-air.

I’ll watch you till I look like bark, and squirrels nest in my hair.

 

You’ve got a prickly blackberry bush; it’s blooming in your yard.

I’ll eat those prickly berries one night, in the quiet of your yard.

When my mouth turns blue, I’ll talk to you, like I’m praying to the Lord.

 

I think I’ve read about you in books of poems and ghosts.

I think I’ve read about you in poems about books and ghosts.

You haunt your window, then my head; you stick to both like frost.

 

I see you smiling, laughing, on the sidewalk on the phone.

I see you laugh and shake your head, talking on the phone.

I love whoever’s on the line; he makes me doubly alone.

 

It’s nine o’clock and raining, but the sun shines on the leaves.

It’s almost night, and raining, but there’s sunshine on the leaves.

Tonight I’ll live inside your skin, like rain lives in the trees.

 

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