Monday, November 19, 2012

Within her veins the coursing of a blue

Within her veins the coursing of a blue
blood is making music. Who has allowed
our being here? The books are weathered yellows
and browns, the ocean is an infinite league

of sorrows. She exposes the soft tissue
of her mouth and tongue, the lights that follow
the Sun around the earth. I cannot swallow
my pride, the poems, the ridiculous clues

and inferred arguments. Her blood is red
and warm again, the lines of a grey graphite
are spelling letters. I have never dared

to love someone so surely the opposite
of me. I wander about the content shared
in a field of undistinguished brilliant white.

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