two halves, unbroken lie

I see you in the walls
painted white in dark blotches
metallic doors bearing numbers
unlike any we’ve known:
a cathedral of a person,
a temple within and without

in the hills, distant cries
echoing shadows on palms
thick skin, full of mirrors and delights
a nose like a freckle beneath your blue eyes
as buffaloes roam, they run
break hallows and streets with their hooves
march down mountains and jump
atop clouds behind which whistles hide

in the rain, mere drizzle
like a blooming plant seething again;
roots stuck deeply in the past
(which is ours,
which has you in it, unlike now
unlike today), a constant promise
to be, hide, play wolves
let the river run

in notes flown astray
like a flock–
sparrows casting shadows on the earth,
carried away by the sprinkling rain
drenching my yellow heart,
my stomach full of paint–
your hands carry wind on my behalf

in this motion, trembling jaw
these stanzas fluttering by
dancing away to the wind
to the distant cry of lost time;
in the white napkin swept away,
containing all the sobs,
all the words I am not able to convey

now tears splutter in silence against wood
far away, against lakes,
solitude, love
all that in your arms remains


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