Return
The night
takes these inky thoughts, blurs them
to rainy shadows
hopes scattered, spots of fat snow on the wind. I held your hand in Springfield--it was
not your real hand, but your long fingers swept my face clean.
It was not my real voice that spoke to you
But it was my mouth that kissed you.
Now the heart returns to its spot,
its pact with choices piled up like sticks.
Ceremonies are finished.
The spells of longing and protection
finished.
The night takes them into drifts
of sour sleep,
into the secret wooded hills.
We return to sing the darker music.
The bones stretching
into trees stripped of bark, ready
for the fire.
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