It was like the opposite
of love: at first we didn't see
any beauty in it,
not me at least. It was a finger
up at the sky, an evening of drips,
light only in its own light:
a non-sun remiss behind
everything it could find -
air, clouds, spires,
the fuzzed invisible
horizon. The ferocity of walking,
water making new insane angles
out of anything, the way
you pulled me out of the house
as if you knew something,
carrying your face like a dish
to catch water - drinking
with a closed mouth.
No comments:
Post a Comment