Silver

Centrifuge

blood liquid

still point

where there is no turning away.

 

Morning arcs

bright flickers

tree fingers

shadow of a nuptial moon fading.

 

You are last years leaves

and tomorrow’s blossom

the place where tongue still lingers

curves around a full mouth

blurs the edges of feeling with sensation.

 

You are the mountain’s spring

falling troubled into genuflecting river

searching for a space to soothe

the churning  of unanswered metaphor

with warmth.

 

You’re the shadow behind every door I open

a shaft of sunlight striking dust from musted hands:

we are the light inside the silver sided mirror

our faces merge in contemplation

we touch our netted palms to one reflection,

then turn aside and walk alone these jaded city streets again.

 

 

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