/On Scheherazade

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake

                                                            and dress them in warm clothes again. 


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           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. 

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Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means

             we're inconsolable.

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                                            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.


(by richard sicken)