Silver

Centrifugeblood liquidstill pointwhere there is no turning away. Morning arcsbright flickerstree fingersshadow of a nuptial moon fading. You are last years leavesand tomorrow’s blossomthe place where tongue still lingerscurves around a full mouthblurs the edges of feeling with sensation. You are the mountain’s springfalling troubled into genuflecting riversearching for a space to soothethe churning  of unanswered metaphorwith warmth. You’re the shadow behind every door I opena shaft of sunlight striking dust from musted hands:we are the light inside the silver sided mirrorour faces merge in contemplationwe touch our netted palms to one reflection,then turn aside and walk alone these jaded city streets again.