The words rise. Like angels in heaven, sent
to make communion with the neighbors.
In twos. In cherubic threes. In choral fourths.
Sweetheart. Have you been well?
I push aside our summer sheets, hoping
to flash sufficient light and dark to catch the intentions
at dawn. Our house no less a parlor than a church
of living bones. The sunlight is pitched funeral dust
spreading peace on earth. I am called by others
living namelessly nearby. To spend my short eternity
imagining addresses. The globe. Every morn it spins
showing any blinkered eye its favorite colors
like a summoning forth.
Today the countries may reveal faces: their hells
blurring with paradises, land, ocean,
Sweden’s wealth and China’s poor genuflected. The situation
of a world in crisis while limbs lurch
playing at bed sheets and snores and mirrors; let’s touch –
kicking at our sore spots. The words rise; lovers
remake the news. Are you lovely enough to wake? Sleeping beauty.
Every spin o’ the globe awakens us; beauty sees beauty. – mh clay