Fingers Make Some Music, Please
sigh.
what can I say I haven't said before?
what ingenious pronouncement of metaphor?
the sighs of my life
keep knocking at the door
I want to be drunk with poems
that commit suicide,
honour the
person I used to be
sighing
with the apple's first bite,
blushing red
ripely picked off the summer tree
when the heron waded,
quietly stalking his anticipation
and the egret flew
white-feathered with snow,
the carp bobbing for insects
when the world was still green
with Eve
but it is morning
and the morning arrives with tears
you leave
and your touch escapes these memories traced
like signs on my back,
and all I have are these hands busy
with something to do,
and all I hold is this wanting you.
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