tartle
“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.”
Of searing, tender piety I hear you sigh
your limbs like flowers
long and red,
held upright by the sound of trumpets.
You articulate in the veil of nighttime
velvet and clay,
I receive the syllables yet
understand more through your hands
then the rhythm of words.
I do not care where you go
unless you put your feet to the floor
and walk quietly
without me at your side.
Photo source.
