Grass
blades with watering eyes,
stare
out into the stale dewy night,
waiting
for robust from the sun,
watch
mourning doves quiet to the down
of
their small nighttime world.
I
am further aware of crayons cooling in drawers,
away
from hot hands with their coloring tasks
while
I sleep with the knife
that
cuts fresh flowers in my dreams,
delivering
me cheerful faces, yet holding poses
while
privately straining their stems dry.
In
the morning, indifferent light will come,
yet
for me, longings for the two of us,
light
as my emmissay,
will
run the length of your body.
with
long slow-blade radiant strokes,
now
deliciously watched, for my eyes’ nurishment
to
feel for your absence, but am comforted
both
by your imagined muted sighes
coming
from the pit of my stomach
and
these grass blades, that I now share
with
them, these too, my watering eyes.
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