When, in The
morning, your eyes appear as an Apparition
above my bed, I am not afraid. I do not think Of
your hands or the weight These
thoughts hold. Faces
do not have to be our defining feature. In
spring once, you told me The
sound of my voice brought a Crowd:
you threw Petals
onto the pavement, On
the cold, round earth and A
broken old lady with a trail of Wet
tears knelt to pick the Black
off her shoe, next to a fallen, blooming Bough.
morning, your eyes appear as an Apparition
above my bed, I am not afraid. I do not think Of
your hands or the weight These
thoughts hold. Faces
do not have to be our defining feature. In
spring once, you told me The
sound of my voice brought a Crowd:
you threw Petals
onto the pavement, On
the cold, round earth and A
broken old lady with a trail of Wet
tears knelt to pick the Black
off her shoe, next to a fallen, blooming Bough.
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