Member Rara Avis
I'm tangled in webs of missleep.
How many words jangle like keys
and coins in old pockets of memory?
How many touches taste turned, tainted
in the blister of midnight to three?
How many phone calls breaking streams
leave us deposited on the moon?
I'm looking out the window
a satisfied coin,
a glowing silver key,
a ring against the sky.
I want to take you in,
shelter you in black felt,
cry against the knowledge
of your keeping.
The pillow offers no comfort.
The sheets no satisfaction.
I want to walk you to the sea.
I want to wade home through our image.
Fragments of light breaking and bursting
with each step.