look for her Sunday heart
how the wind has blown the leaves upon the path
and my eyes have followed their scampering
there
and then the wind had blown amongst my hair
messing like a mother’s hand her child’s hair
and all the sun about everywhere
hear her choir and her bells
in the Temple of her Sunday
sing and ring to Grace above
her tender love of simple things
yr don’t bring wings back
from skies
the feathers
have felt
the wind
I want you to know
sometimes when I look
at you
I pick the flowers
you could keep them
flowers
if you
want to
I’d not give them
to another
yr know
stars live
by themselves
I tell her
4 days out
from birth
I wish her
all things
God gave
a planet
how the sky
must like her?
I take my t-shirt
off my shoulder
like her picture
I’d not want to
write another poem
if love were sweet
why would you
want to?
I like the way
of hurting
it makes
loneliness real
as love
