Apr. 8th, 2012

3.

Apr. 8th, 2012 08:30 pm
levity: (clarity)
Everyone's doing poetry month, so okay, why not?

I hope that everyone who celebrates Easter is having a happy one, and that everyone who doesn't is enjoying the chocolate. I should probably have more to say? But I'm tired of things that are raw and that sting. I hope you're all okay.

And since it's the season for impossibles anyway, I hope that we completely trounce Manchester City.

---

Scheherazade

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
                                                       and dress them in warm clothes again.
         How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
                   It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
         it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,
                 how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
                                                                                       to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means
         we're inconsolable.
                               Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
                                                                Tell me we'll never get used to it.


- Richard Siken

3.

Apr. 8th, 2012 08:30 pm
levity: (clarity)
Everyone's doing poetry month, so okay, why not?

I hope that everyone who celebrates Easter is having a happy one, and that everyone who doesn't is enjoying the chocolate. I should probably have more to say? But I'm tired of things that are raw and that sting. I hope you're all okay.

And since it's the season for impossibles anyway, I hope that we completely trounce Manchester City.

---

Scheherazade

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
                                                       and dress them in warm clothes again.
         How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
                   It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
         it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,
                 how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
                                                                                       to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means
         we're inconsolable.
                               Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
                                                                Tell me we'll never get used to it.


- Richard Siken

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