You sapped the shades from roses,
stripped the bark off trees,
left faces and cities twisted in ice
to bend sunlight to your sky.
If we brush shoulders on a lamp-lit street,
keep the pictures inside your pocket.
Their traces can never sketch our portrait
in the dirt left under our feet.
When we speak, give me reprieve;
let my Earth spill with light.
Lift up your foot, its sole ragged and torn,
and hurry your pace through the night.
We could be altered then.
Your face the scent of dust.
(Fall ’08)
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