How holy
Is this little universe Of 5:17 in the morning? these salty dregs of nighttime That belong only to The peculiar few? This Fraying tapestry of Blue silk, sweet coffee, And salted almonds That rips open, stretches wide In our funhouse mirror Of midnight, leftover. A bubble of the galaxy You hubba bubba blew, Popping only with that Petulant prod of dawn. The open window Paints the floor an inky indigo, And we go swimming before breakfast, Take an extra hour to Dive for oysters. I fill my cheeks with pearls this morning. Spit them out, one by one, Into your open palms. You toss them into the sky, The stars eat them in big gulps. Before dawn, the darkness is sweet And sticky - It drips down the walls like molasses, Gets in between my toes, Lathers itself in your hair, Curls around the purring cat. I dip a brush in the ocean licking our feet And paint the windows dark. Then you, swirling the morning hour Onto you belly, up you neck, over you eyelids. Then, I cover myself in morning, too, And we are lost to the blue.
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journal entriessome poems, some prose, some in-between Archives
October 2020
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