i see my wrists become a set of chimes --
spinning, aglow beneath the arms of trees.
these fingertips do not cower to them.
the pale electric flesh at rest is blessed,
but priestesses hold no last rites for me.
a barefoot dance assures the blending earth.
autumn has flushed the heat away from skies.
it hides itself as pinks and reds in me.
this fever changes my insight and eye,
so greens become sun-kissed and golden hues.

10/07/2004

Posted on 04/08/2006
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