9 months ago
. . .
all the night,
on a winter solstice--where the night is long and the day is bad--and afterwards the music is missing and the clouds keep the sun from burning a hole in the sky.
your hands--the kindness of touch, burn of a shot of gold, eyes that stare into the night. too hot to sleep, too lonely to make love.
while the radio flutters in static spanish praises god for numbering every strand of hair on all our heads. we creatures strayed from heaven, who, at mindless hours, waken and shut our eyes.
before the end of grace.