Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2013
We drift
on the winter sun’s glints,
where the horizon is a musician’s lips
pressed tight on a horn
repeating a note in 12/8 time.
When I met you
I thought you said you were a parasol,
and I imagined you
spinning upward in a painter’s daydream.
At this moment
we find each other where things are lost,
or—let me put this better—
where we’ll never find each other again.
We’re caught in the memory of shade
as we drift
beneath the ligatures of nimbus,
or in your words a mean-loooking sky.
All bliss drips into each of us
at this moment
when we don’t feel lonely.
But I won’t share what I protect.
These confessions
are for someone else I haven’t met.
Michael Tobias
Written by
Michael Tobias
736
   ---, st64, --- and Amy Leigh
Please log in to view and add comments on poems