Saturday, December 13, 2014
Terrified of Sipping
An icicle is the sun another way, as snow reimagines the blue in which I am always famously composing. This sentence unfolds within both me and you, very much the way all those cardinals work their way from our hearts through our throats to the light. Call it a poem, call it a song, call it a motel room in Albany strung with soft kisses. Some telephones never ring and some bottles of wine gather dust forever in otherwise empty cellars. Tractor is simply the way I can say right now I believe there are no tractors and no fields and no farmers harvesting crops. Terrified of sipping - which is to say terrified that even the little I have will be taken away - I take you in gulps, insisting on naked, my hands on your shoulders, all of you opening to all of me now. Those snowy expanses behind the house glisten as the chalky moon works its way west. What a confused and meandering love letter I am! What a lovely envelope you make, tackling the miles as if they were real.
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