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Submitted on
November 24, 2012
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The setting matters
for such a word;
it has fallen too casually into silk,
entangled itself in lace,
and skittered past the private lights
of lamps
before it found itself upon the ground;

and it has worn different patterns;
the pink tint of empty streets
made it more meaningful

over the crowded blue skies of midday;
and it has died in the coffee cups
of pellucid mornings

after the flame danced erratic in the breath
that set it free,
hacked at shadows on the wall
as it fell to me limp on
hot precipitations.

and as it was tossed from a departing cab,
and stumbled in newspapers
over tracks,
the sunrise gathered patina stains.

So never as the sun sets, or by an ocean please;
they are reserved for the future,
and I shall like to wander them
again someday.

****************
The Night And Beaches

I lose you in the clear blue sky
like an ocean,

the heaviness and weight of your love
delivered in warm breath,
in silk,
and quiet dusk

gasping in the coffee cups
of pellucid mornings

set free all too soon
from a departing cab,
stumbling over newspapers
as the sunrise gathers patina stains.

Leave the sunsets alone please,
they are already pregnant with yesterday.


*****************************************


The Night And Beaches

Love
how carelessly you let it fall
through silk,
warm breath
as lightly as you lean
over dust

knowing how the wind
is so precarious;

as you move my hair
as carefully
as layers of sand
knowing how fragile
relics are.

I lose you in the clear blue sky
like an ocean,

the heaviness and weight of it all
letting up with the air

gasping in the cold china
of pellucid mornings

set free all too soon
from a departing cab,
stumbling over newspapers
as the sunrise gathers patina stains

and I learn that you were better
as a shadow
approaching,
and why love makes us history--  ***

presses down on us in rain
like laminate pages,

borrow our eyes from time to time
for those sunsets
pregnant with yesterday.

*****************************************

As You Said It

It was soft in the warm breath and precipitation, between our fingers--
pliable, rolling in the silk
a patina in the sunrise;

became heavy in your departure, on the cold floor,
between your feet

stumbling

pale in the pellucid morning,
blanched cup;   ***

it had no chance in the concrete
as it stumbled from the doorway,
tossed in paper,
too resentful of the sunrise
that birthed it.
. . .

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