Tuesday, February 26, 2013


( modified from an earlier poem)

We turn to sleep again at dawn,
the pale glow of morning against the dusty sky,
chirping birds and hooting trains singing,
the entanglement of bed sheets and
oversized pillows around our arms and legs,
the webs of passion,
or roots to some greater desire
of which neither can attest,
wood pressed against wood,
growing in and out of the barriers,
of our lives,
filled with moist dreams
and abrupt awakenings,
bars of light over limbs
only dawn can expose,
revealing us
in ways we never expected
but not undesired
for at the root of it all,
in this wrestling
over night
we ultimately
ache for

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