her hand will be moonlight
by him: quietly
have we become beautiful
sound? movement of dancers
and fangs of music— birds
stirring elsewhere,
abandoning trees, you
and trilling waywardly across sound, me
all is disquiet in days your lips
have sung honeyed softness
i could hear it like a flower
whose petals are blue
deepening in silence.
her smile will be harlequinade
by him and an adagio of scherzo
by her will make feet trample
the accident of water: pond-strove
of love's bend asks
have we become rivers
leaping in temporal splendors
as when it will never
give sleep its ****** whiteness again
i sing through morning's trek
and we, deeper then rain-washed stone,
will be all but moon and dark,
oh, you, me — unclosed without protest
pressed against the wall
of love's domain.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
her hand will be moonlight
by him: quietly
have we become beautiful
sound? movement of dancers
and fangs of music— birds
stirring elsewhere,
abandoning trees, you
and trilling waywardly across sound, me
all is disquiet in days your lips
have sung honeyed softness
i could hear it like a flower
whose petals are blue
deepening in silence.
her smile will be harlequinade
by him and an adagio of scherzo
by her will make feet trample
the accident of water: pond-strove
of love's bend asks
have we become rivers
leaping in temporal splendors
as when it will never
give sleep its ****** whiteness again
i sing through morning's trek
and we, deeper then rain-washed stone,
will be all but moon and dark,
oh, you, me — unclosed without protest
pressed against the wall
of love's domain.
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