Sunday, February 26, 2006

Prose Poem # 719

Next to this

I place a lantern, a mantle, and a pen. You sleep always on your side, the swell and curve of your side familiar landscapes etched in the memory of my fingers. Somewhere outside, a cicada calls out for a mate, lonely. The moon tucks itself neatly beneath the slant of the city rooftops. The light spills on the night's looming darkness, staining the pristine black. I move towards the source. My intention is clear. Maybe someone knows this already. We try to cover up what reminds us of sadness, knowing that what breaks the heart is always what is true. The pen is taken up. Everything is written from the body.

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