Hush our song of grief
for a time, while here we wear
all our sicknesses, combined.
Our clothes burning at our feet,
our faces weeping for change,
our arms
embracing what’s not healing.
However, we’ll rush,
however, we’ll touch –
using excuses without answering much,
leaving our scars open to another morning
entering in through a window,
along with a bird’s gleam of eyes
watching us envy its freedom.
One kiss. It can release
just one pang among the many
we have left within those spreading roots,
crawling over shameless bodies,
nude to forming dew.
Just a second to see
our trembling limbs, our ecstasy.
Teardrops keep coming.
Rain falls, turning from bitter clarity
into blinding light of gold,
though we ignore that warming sun,
turning down that path
we always set our feet to run.
If we’re ever saved,
let our kisses be for shadows only.
Twins, in winter, under
snowy pillows that have smothered
our eternal fate of being apart,
becoming clay
for a more familiar shape.
Modern Romanticism 