An angel of war sends me photographs, black and white.
I surrender, so we
chew on Floridian palms, the majesty of loons,
and how to capture the moon.
I've hidden his photographs behind a mask that hangs from my mirror,
where I spend hours rehearsing
how to disappear.
Eye do look on that day with anxious yearning;
his epic
return to the void,
because a tug of war is always easier without handling the rope,
and I cannot force his wings closed. I cannot soften the blow.
His motions
like ocean tides,
so strong and so slow.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
An angel of war sends me photographs, black and white.
I surrender, so we
chew on Floridian palms, the majesty of loons,
and how to capture the moon.
I've hidden his photographs behind a mask that hangs from my mirror,
where I spend hours rehearsing
how to disappear.
Eye do look on that day with anxious yearning;
his epic
return to the void,
because a tug of war is always easier without handling the rope,
and I cannot force his wings closed. I cannot soften the blow.
His motions
like ocean tides,
so strong and so slow.
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