I Call Him Joy
His hands were made of Joy and when he touched her face
light bursts, breaching her skin, burning holes through paper skies.
Years laid like bricks in his eyes–sturdy stacks of life surviving in copper fields.
Her porcelain figure drowns deep within his gaze;
she swam across his memory and drank his fantasies.
Her bare hands rejuvenate constellations which slouch as weeping willows in the sky.
She reaps the soil, harvesting his faith,
Stores grains of happiness in her skin,
Sews his hand to hers
fixating what is.
Within walls of words do they find bones and things to hide.
Slivers of life from prehistoric time, lives that cannot be remodeled, relaunched---
wrinkles worn as warnings, confounding assorted dreams.
Majestically jesting all the while finding each other’s glance difficult to swallow.
Have you ever felt eyes upon your face, neck and shoulders?
Seeing you. Wanting you.
If only the moon would embrace the day;
if only trees would just grow to feel the skin of earth break below it’s belt, bleeding.
Living. Dying.
Yes–if only.
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