Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep,the horses running
until they forget they are horses.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means
we're inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.
2 comments:
did you by chance write this??
Yeaaaah right. I wish! I believe it's a poem called Scheherazade. From the book Crush by Richard Siken.
It's amazing though. I put it in a frame... 0:
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