The wind,
a poetry brushing
my skin.
Ferns painting
ankles
in cool dew
on a hiker’s trek.
The stars,
arranged or
understood as
arranged...
a song not
yet forgot.
An arrangement of
notes, of diacriticals,
of arpeggios,
awaiting the blushing
washout.
My arms, open to
the lovely dark,
the smokily smudged
pre-dawn...
Tea vapours’ tendrily
hand caresses tenderly
my nostril, my
hungry Palace of
Intent.
She sleeps,
Somewhere.
Or rises.
Somewhere, that
accursèd ‘not here.’
She starts a shower,
she starts her coffee,
she starts her car.
She starts her day.
These arms are never
so Empty, so Open
as in these epoch
hours before the Light.
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