Saturday, March 20, 2010

St. John of Parma

A moon so big, it’s hard to wrap

your arms around its wide belly. Bitterness

exists in a coffee mug on my windowsill.

The more I wish the more I know he will arrive

late. Beneath these ribs, there is a ruby forest. Sleep

with him and at least you’ll be held. Through the night,

I dream that all the pines fall. I dream that God

is spun sugar. Pink and full, he melts into the dawn.

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