Saturday, May 11, 2013

More incomplete poems

My hands become invisible
each time the day is revealed
like a horoscope
caught in the halfway space
of reasoning and doubt.
I find myself explaining myself
to aquatic numbers
which are swimming somewhere
upstream where the dawn
is collecting silence.
Every cloud is
a lyrical ballad
waiting to to be rained.
And you are nearer
than any star to Heaven
simply because of virtue.

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Love's Violin

Love's Violin
A bird in the rain