Green is the snow beneath
our wintered soles that shuffle
back and forth looking for static
spark to light the wood
we’ve been gathering
wood would melt
our cold weather words
Oh but we do consent the clouds to gather so heavy as spouts that poor our heads full of pounding, leave us rising amnesiacs.
Slow heads
overflowed
of rain
-water
our feet again
to wonder
collecting dew
stains and baking
over the ice of summer
In periphery sky
In melancholy joy
wait down poor
clouds for semaphore:
“sink us ships
in cathartic bliss and cold,
cold forgetfulness”
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2 comments:
Joni Mitchell would love this.
we should make a semaphore tower and the messengers must be naked.
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