August 19, 2012

poem 275 of a poem a day for 2012

morning star

damp Autumn is
a hung rug outside
a clear eaten orange
to blue slide pink tongue
over the hush whisper
stillness of everything
except the occasional
pierce black caw
of the crows and
the mockingbirds
its calls

the seed gatherers scurry
to hurry to soon
fly south again
I left the window open so
that the cool air
could eat away
at my dreams
so that I could awake
swimming in them
with little shivers
little arrows that found
each target of my flesh and
bones and the hone
of a soul yearning
to be on slow fire
like the day is
at the mark of Dawn
to the East
as if an apple
were already
spilt in two
upon her head


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