Monday, July 9, 2012

sonnet one hundred sixty one

hidden in unmapped cities,
edges where i wait under
the naked sun, singing my
soul out of silence until

you become my own hands
and loneliness is nothing
but a white reverie that
dances its way through low

afternoons, shadows fall
behind, humming to the
flickering energy of

stars before they even
appear, before they blot
the satin night sky.

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