your feet dragging the flow into the house
the river
across the stairs where in tiny cracks the sun's still nesting
bathrobe pockets full of carps and moonshine you sneak through rooms and years
ahead of time by a wingbeat of light ahead of your life by a breath
feet covered in ancient silk you smell of hay and cream and nightly drunk gold
the long evenings instruct you in the use of light and your eyes invent the daymoon made of down and honey
maybe your name is not only made up of syllables and letters
but of rain and melons of night and foam
of drumbeats
sediments of love |