April 11

Life could be measured in the turn of seasons,
in the coming buds of spring and singed skin of fall.

But I have seen so many leaves that they bleed
into each other’s ravenous colors seamlessly.

And we could count lips that we’ve tasted
or great dishes prepared on holidays.

But they’ve all been tainted by sauces
prepared to entice the senses to engage.

We are left instead with this cosmos
spinning cool to the touch, sandy sweet

left to settle the ways we could measure
in pricks of light that pass in sleep.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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