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Why in dreams do you seem so desirous,
so careless of desire?
Even what I know
when I know you are here
alive and looking
even from a distance
if there is distance there,
which is not what I want to hear,
I don't tell you I want to be
where I can touch you.
In the safety of a dream
will you believe me when I say
you are surrounded by ghosts, no metaphor,
a troublesome present;
sheet of sorrow?
You come to me and I know
no hush upon waking, my finger
brushing your fading lip knows, it tells me
you are there, but
what is there?
it's not just emergence that I crave
not just the grave details of things
or a brave season of tangerine or crocus,
yet knowing nothing else to do
but forecast acts of faith;
fruit, berries, a smile,
arms and cheeks; a caress to cold shoulders
engraved by years of freeze and thaw—
the cascade of rainfall, you in the orchard
infused with the aroma of bees,
a tango in the limbs of trees,
a magpie flecking the rye.
a likeness flows among us
carried by this pale-petaled crate
we call words, we call heart
words that say hold dear,
I am here any which way
you try and force the bloom away.

27 Apr 16

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love the last two lines lady!
 — NicMichaels

excellent poem
 — rivergood

Thanks River :)
 — jenakajoffer