Sunday, November 17, 2013

We Once Imagined Life

We once imagined life
was paper bags with oil spots,
or downy nests, or the splicing
of hands.

In the space between
two pines,
under breath,
we whispered, "yours" and
"mine." The dove's breastbone,

A clot of sap is sticking to us both,
our torn coats dusted,
nothing new under the sun,
or dewy eyed, after another
skin graft,

does it last?

Is there virtue in this cold salt
clinging to the center?