Birth in Rainbows

Birthing rings, these things
The things in eclipse behind
heavens doors, we never
spoke of rainbows...

not mine, not my tears
and bent light, not of
refraction or bouncing
planes.


Gypsy clover my lover's bed
is unmade by sorrow,
we'll sleep on it, and dream
of 'morrow beyond the shards
of prism and rain.