I fell onto you in mixed memories and dreams.
I saw spotted sand on beach porches and softness;
You remember being pillowed in new down comfort.
When night drifts in and waking weighs heavy, I turn over to curled toes that I remember encountering for the first time.
I saw a man with legs crossed and peace on his brow. He talked to me about the weather and I loved him.
Adventure itches my side and crawls up my leg. We found it today in autumn clouded fingerprints on boughs bent towards icebox harvest warmth. I slept for minutes by peace’s command. I woke swaying beside you and you gave me the gift of surprise.
You painted melted fire on a canvas of misery. I walked on one drip and my toes and heels were stained. I stepped home and fell on your heels. I saw a scar of calcium swollen and soft and suggestive.
I hum along with you and put cigarettes in my bag. My lashes look like fringe on Eskimo cheeks; soft pricks on white warmth. And new memories of cuddled fingers brush my skin as I fold within you.
(2)
Once I stood where hands fell hard.
Now, I stand on edge with slight held palms brushing slight jagged slopes.
Then, I told friends of far off places clutching angels with whiskey on their tongues.
If I paint the lives of chance and survival, I find family and canvas.
When colors streak in crooked combed rows,
and lines close up are desert colors mingled,
family gardeners hold wooden columns parallel, and error bends them.
Now I find soft touch in fingertips with short nails that tap ivory to print and ink.
Once I heard that music, and then I touched sound.
(3)
He turned letters to words with gentle hands.
And then an empty mattress lined the hardwood floor.
When I remember loneliness in small cities,
I see brick lined walks with families and full tables.
There’s a wall with hope written in languages of mingled letters.
There’s tea and music and book lined walls.
But I found, folded on wooden floors, skin like paper creased into fragile objects.
Once I stood where hands fell hard.
Now, I stand on edge with slight held palms brushing slight jagged slopes.
Then, I told friends of far off places clutching angels with whiskey on their tongues.
If I paint the lives of chance and survival, I find family and canvas.
When colors streak in crooked combed rows,
and lines close up are desert colors mingled,
family gardeners hold wooden columns parallel, and error bends them.
Now I find soft touch in fingertips with short nails that tap ivory to print and ink.
Once I heard that music, and then I touched sound.
(3)
He turned letters to words with gentle hands.
And then an empty mattress lined the hardwood floor.
When I remember loneliness in small cities,
I see brick lined walks with families and full tables.
There’s a wall with hope written in languages of mingled letters.
There’s tea and music and book lined walls.
But I found, folded on wooden floors, skin like paper creased into fragile objects.
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