Sunday, April 18, 2010
Letter to a Vague You
Give me an inch & I'll take the reflection of your hands like memory to the marrow. Paint with that for a month of night. When the hymnal begins I'll be cupping a flame to a mouth just risen from the edge of sleep. What I mean is, woman, how'd you get so beauty-torn. The alphabet arranges in your veins like a vine hell-bent on the sun. You speak to the thief in me; my dreams turn to box-cars & blues, a fistful of dirt, your air.