Wednesday, March 19


Listen—sculpted forms speak in the dim,
wait for the assumptions you’ll make,
slice the fragile air.

You lie abed, planetary motions in your head,
tragic trajectories melding into mornings
too dreary to dream.

Daniel—the lions pause their paces, bear the faces
of primordial passions and bygone illuminations,
salivating expectations of your visit.

Hear this—the sky poured the day you were born.
This violent den, these thoughts you pen:
incongruous with what moves through us. 

The thousand pigments of your skin, colors within,
not pale but pretty, strong one.
The big cats roar tonight;
sleep, Daniel, rest.

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