poetry critical

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Portents, veiled.

I have a vision:
“One day, we will watch
the water burn our skin
and shy fingers hold
hands feeling the
current beneath our
sandy feet.
We will float
like the swans
in their ritual dance
on an strange sunset.
Our eyes will
become anemones
wallowing to a thousand
colors that any poet
could not write
nor any painter could paint.
We will fly away
to a cloud where
no lovers have sailed.”
But this is where I stop:
when two vowels
could pull you
to the ground.

1 Sep 16

(define the words in this poem)
(29 more poems by this author)

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