It’s ten thousand
feet. I can see
the cling of her
breath on her skin.
And through her breath,
her skin, covered
with blemishes,
blotches. Its raised
scars, its scabs, and
open gashes. They
don’t bleed. They weep
most perfect blues.
And all of it
is imperfect.
And all of her
is perfect too.
1 comment:
There is such an expression of tenderness and love of the landscape in this poem...Beautiful!
Post a Comment