by Gideon Burton
I’ll wake you with the mouths of flowers wet
against your warmer skin. I’ll brush the smoke
of waking with the voices we forget
too well, too soon. Not long from now the clock
of humid summer heat will swallow us.
The tadpoles of regret might wriggle loose
the mason lid; we may no longer trust
our wrinkled hands to finger well the noose
around the constellations, bulging whites
that bleed the sunlight pebbling through the arch
of nights against which flocks in arrows fight,
their straining necks half reaching to the stars.
I will remember lying here with you,
as though the water swallowed other truths.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - AleBonvini