Saturday, February 4, 2012

Day 7

and in the smallest mornings,
with red tips streaked across a loved sky
i dream of you in the wide strokes
measured by a colored intelligence,
while He, the same,
paints the future dot to dot, and universe to universe, with
thin black lines connecting souls to bodies,
shells to await displaced substance,
while thick spirits transcendental of smaller thoughts
touch corporeal beings and lul them to a fine-tuned slumber.

I dream of you because you are gentle,
and fragile
and lovely.

I could cup you in my palm
and protect
painted bones,
project these skinny hands
from ever faulting-
I could dream a million dreams, and miss you no less.
I could see your eyes a thousand times
through photographs and

you could be a sun to me, and warm my bones,
but then I could not look in your eyes.
Still, I would. I’d gladly go blind
for you,
and crushed powder refined to sprinkle over iced wounds
and open the stems of closed hearts,
heat the chill of forgotten want-
gladly, I would go blind.

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