Soujin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2007-04-14 10:32 pm
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2007-04-14 10:32 pm
Entry tags:
"Like the Sun that Shines..."
April is Poetry Month?
Red Love Song
You, sitting by a window, have a
tiny red beating thing in your breast which
I think is a miracle.
Redder than sour cherries after we net them
to keep the blue jays away
and still find birds tangled, and put our hands around them and lift them our
freeing our own thieves
whose wings beat like a pulse.
You bear a red miracle which beats like wings.
A kimono is on my wall. Clothed in it, your
tiny beating would be muffled with golden
golden cloth, like honey in the comb.
We lift it out dripped. I see it alive
with the purr of bees
imagine what a miracle.
Outside your window blue jays prey on
unriped cherries
still unclothed with green mesh netting fine as spiderweb, strong
as baling twine
which grows old and musty in the
hayloft, where the sun and dust turns it
golden as honey in the comb.
And your red thing beats like wings as
the hay flies golden through the air
and cracks, spills on the ground.
I hear the purr of bees, like wings like
pulses, and see you by the window,
wearing a kimono.
I think it is a miracle.
Red Love Song
You, sitting by a window, have a
tiny red beating thing in your breast which
I think is a miracle.
Redder than sour cherries after we net them
to keep the blue jays away
and still find birds tangled, and put our hands around them and lift them our
freeing our own thieves
whose wings beat like a pulse.
You bear a red miracle which beats like wings.
A kimono is on my wall. Clothed in it, your
tiny beating would be muffled with golden
golden cloth, like honey in the comb.
We lift it out dripped. I see it alive
with the purr of bees
imagine what a miracle.
Outside your window blue jays prey on
unriped cherries
still unclothed with green mesh netting fine as spiderweb, strong
as baling twine
which grows old and musty in the
hayloft, where the sun and dust turns it
golden as honey in the comb.
And your red thing beats like wings as
the hay flies golden through the air
and cracks, spills on the ground.
I hear the purr of bees, like wings like
pulses, and see you by the window,
wearing a kimono.
I think it is a miracle.
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