Friday, June 25, 2010

What a Luxury, for Thirty Years

to scooch my numb toes
across a field of cotton
to shelter
under your warm limbs

to wake
from the approaching blade,
the children snatched by strangers,
and pull your roundness
into the trough of my belly

to quell
the steel pan's pounding,
the writhing dance of sponge wings
between my ribs
with your sleep soaked body

to dream
a long line of nights
each ending at ocean's edge,
a gray light,
a rolling over,
the opening of eyes.




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