Thursday, January 11, 2007

Parade of Hours

Salmon hands, Pacific hands, Pisces-born, there are flies in my sleep.

My emerald speaks in such soothing tongues, her eyes dance with lust, but I cannot keep her.

There must be some chains that keep my coins; I cannot reach them.

Each of your fingers is a stalk of fire.

My love for you is a new arithmetic. It knifes me with a smile.

The parade of hours knows only your name, but I am a pair of mirrored dice.

I am the martyr of damp sheets and trees peopled with whispering stars.

I am nailed to laughing truth and cannot street.

Tomorrow is a theater, a priest, a patricide, champagne.

Trapped inside my poem there is no voice, only the greenest breezes.

I love the storm tumbling inside me.

I’ll set a trap for patience.

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