Wednesday, May 09, 2012

A disembodied voice has nothing left, or right

We make frequent stops
along our ways,
all the different ways
each of us has to go,
and even those few same we have,
and when she says it,
when she helps us with her
my’s, we listen.

The moon’s lost face,
she’s lost a little too
of her orange glow,
grown paler, yellow
but not any colder,
since I last heard from her, both
different and the same, as when
I was headed another way.

They say, or have said,
in some made-up way
and place, these frequent way-
stops make it easier
to keep track of
how far we’ve come,
how much face the moon
may have lost, or gained
along our ways.

My faith comes in leaps
and it keeps me
imagining her voice,
so pretty, with its accent
I can’t place, there before
she lost her body,
the body that lost the hands,
and sides, she likes to speak of.

Her blood left too, or it moved
onto colder solutions,
and what was left, and right,
is now dissolving with the ease
of this steel and glass
sliding open to let in the air,
not salted here
but it could be
when I’ll go another way.
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