only the shamans
who could throw their bodies
into intrepid night-flying passerines
could have a view like mine,
I feel an obligation — wonder doesn't want me,
just the boring beau of fact —
to stop turning through my flashcards
of never-be-my loves and fail-sure plans
and let my forehead meet the moon.
Full. Orange. Fast as me. I see
it is licking gleams in the dark hills.
Are you there feather smeared sages,
beating drums to enter my eyes?
See the two stranded necklace
collaring the unbuilt.
No comments:
Post a Comment