Thursday, January 15th, 2009

All Thursdays maybe speak today's language,
the sun that arranges itself like long peeled lemon rinds
___between our feet and across our tables in jagged shapes,
and the wind stands up for itself only silently,
___in gentle sign-language telling my skin "it'll be ok,
___and summer is here, but can't do too much harm long as i am".
Terracotta tiles motionless like oranges in trees marked in place,
table-tops and the skin of women passing radiate a different warmth,
that of a thing alive.
_______like, finally, me.