Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Orbiting Planet You

If I could fondle your anesthetic, and

tell the forest leaves to quit their labor

then among autumn clocks I would quince.

Question: Are there enough thieves in

your ocean to echo twelve years?

And my shimmering voices wonder

about the quality of your amber.

But here in my studio of dreams

your heart is a candelabra of dice.

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