moments

moments

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

For David Whyte


I wrote myself a love note and gave it away.


a bird in the bamboo
carries one seed
of memory,
small and golden,
a grain-tinctured beak
drenched
in its own morning song

light pressed
against me


I handed it to a man, in a crumpled sweat-stained shirt. He put it in his pocket.
I imagine it went through the washer.

In the dryer it turned into confetti,
a thing to throw at love
along with the name I was born with.







A conversation begins right now.


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