poem
It’s all of this useless beauty.
Sun pulled across sun,
gods standing on the shoulders of
other gods to look in the window
at our feet lined up
like little excited birds
to begin the salutation to the sun.
The locket of us falls open
falls into the butter of hours and days,
falls into the earth beneath us
trembling.
If I were on fire, I’m sure I’d say it
louder than this.
I’m sure the arrow of my warrior stance
pierced twice the heart it was meant for.
Gold is the wind of the breath
as it rises and falls
us again,
rising and falling,
butter of air between us
melting.
