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Lona Misa

Raindrops rising
And hairless chick-birds falling;
Comparisons more beautiful
And honoring
To the light
Which falls equationally straight
On the veins of your hands
As mine tingle.
Desiring you.
Our bodies, symmetrical
And separately desired.
My hands to yours,
My eyes catching the waves escaping your eyes
Legs to legs and embrace needing embrace.

We sit in this state
Remembering how we have to wait
For a marker we cannot articulate.
Maps not chosen but present
Dictate and delineate
Our aimless grazing.
Feral and familiar are we:
The lovers and losers.

More modern feeling than I remember dreaming,
But nonetheless, feeling what I have read
And pondered
In the ponds and pastures of the late
Hour of my life.
Yet I am still young
They tell me.
Clacking chalks and daggering pens
And I vanish inside them both.
Only the raindrops wake me now
To what I have always had:
A name.
A choice.
These I can hold
And wield
To whatever strange dream
Now takes hold
Of my hammering heart
And peculiar thoughts.

I wish I were a different poet.
One with a quill perhaps
They seem to capture much better
The writhings of the soul.
But until the feathered care I hold,
I’ll wait for another
Bleeding, bowled,
And dropping
Attempted letters
To screen my every day
To write and resist.

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