Sunday, June 10, 2012

the spirit hand writes in the language of sleep
a kind of breath that two may speak in
alluding, asynchronous, discarnate
no clearer than you remember dreaming it

it writes us as a sign that sees,
as an instant of the night made sun,
more whole than any moon,
and yet
sadder still, even in an ecstacy of blind signifying light

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