Poem V
The cure to light is always more light.
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We've forgotten our faces and see each other only through the lemony light of dreams.
Our pastime is marrying the stickiness of skins to the our fatigued spirits.
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The cure to song is always more song.
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The sound of water is not water—autumn chides us.
Water is but the cupped hands holding the warmth of moons.
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The cure to bloom is always more bloom.
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The death that spring sneakingly planted in our garden is blooming.
Let's sing hymns praising the sturdy loveliness of fig trees.
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The cure to blue is always more blue.
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We are but the sound made by: a bell, a conch, a silver-lipped arrow.
The earth is but the sound a sea makes while it sleeps.
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The cure to philandering moons is always mother earth.
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We bow to the earth and the earth walks with her four legs
and moos in the praise of all that is.
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Our bodies flow but the spirit is still.
The waves crash but the sea doesn't blink.
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Beyond the hills there's another sea to swim in— but not today.
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Posted Oct 17, 2022, 3:45 AM UTC · edited