You shut your eyes and all the poets have gone mute;
Say moon-waltz. Say gun-stun
—and all the faithful says amen.
Yes, you’re the rogue wave in my belly.
The river, the hunger that drowns me whole.
How you keep my tongue sweet—I don’t know.
You’re the feeling after all the raindrops dropped.
The 39˚ fever, the Sunday morning songs
on the radio.
You’re the coldest pillow on my bed,
the warmest soup on the
drizzling November afternoon.
You’re the night sky lovers wish to keep,
the budding little violets on
the city sidewalks.
You’re all that butterflies, all my heart rumbles,
and all my prayers before bedtime.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
You shut your eyes and all the poets have gone mute;
Say moon-waltz. Say gun-stun
—and all the faithful says amen.
Yes, you’re the rogue wave in my belly.
The river, the hunger that drowns me whole.
How you keep my tongue sweet—I don’t know.
You’re the feeling after all the raindrops dropped.
The 39˚ fever, the Sunday morning songs
on the radio.
You’re the coldest pillow on my bed,
the warmest soup on the
drizzling November afternoon.
You’re the night sky lovers wish to keep,
the budding little violets on
the city sidewalks.
You’re all that butterflies, all my heart rumbles,
and all my prayers before bedtime.
