August 26, 2010

Through a door frame the sun seeps in, soaking the back of your body.

At the loom I sit, weaving you a scarf made of cambric.

Through each stitch the needle drowns itself in the wool.

It delights in the smell of the fabric and the feel on its cold skin.

Your father called me by phone yesterday

to tell of his daughter’s reckless wonder.

“She won’t wait for you”, he shared.

“I am content in just listening to every sound she makes” I replied

Our toes are edging the side of the building so tall.

We lick our popsicles as the parade marches by beneath us.

They march into the murky water of the bloody sea.

I don’t think I could love you any more than right now.


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