Night Poem I

The night sits cross-legged outside my window,
and makes me want to flee these hands.

The night is a voice of orchards gently breaking my heart,
and I remember the small feet of a woman,
and how the night once touched them, like a wounded boy.

I don’t want the night to bring me this memory of desire.
I don’t want these nights of love to describe the ruins of my sky.

But the night sits cross-legged at my window,
and calls for me by an old name.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s