it is love
in my bones
fragile fate
how clearly
i see it now
through the wind
and empty faces
all the way home
your face
opens up the clouds
peels back the night
and stars fall
from the sun





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myself is sculptor of
your body’s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings