Tuesday, June 19, 2012

I'm reading you. It didn't make sense

I'm reading you. It didn't make sense
to call the Sunrise song an aubade―
lingerie―a brief, transparent veil
was on my mind like an audible dream.

I woke and slept. I didn't know if I
had told you what I thought or how I felt
or where the light in tongues revealed the valleys
of your back. O let me count the ways

the language vibrates me, articulates
an intimacy with your body. When
my nose discerns a set of rhythmic figures,

I smell the soap in the Eugenides book
I'd read. The morning turned the horizon's page
disclosing what the text before concealed.

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