fresh as grace

i go wandering into that wet dusk gathering air
like a stamen gathers pollen, high with the fever
of being alive, stringing the stars that make
themselves apparent around my neck, a string
of colored beads. the moon wanes but my love
never does, and everything is a circle to me in
front of my eyes and inside me, my molten heart
is beating fierce, you can see the pulsing beneath
my skin. the trees that have gone to sleep as
shadows are draping their limbs over my head
and i let myself go into the undertow of night,
pulling my yolk around me so that i might be
birthed again in the morning, fresh as grace.

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illusions

during the day they bind my hands to the railroad tracks
and leave me to contemplate the speed at which my skin
might part. these ligatures cut into the tattoos on my
wrists, where i once pressed them together over your
sleeping body with an adoration that stays with me even
as i wait for the field of my vision to be filled with
steel bearing down on me. at night i am unbound, and i
wander the banks of the river looking for the moon, but
i only ever find its reflection. i press my wrists
together on the riverbank, knowing what the next day
will bring: rails that appear to coalesce to a single
point of transcendence. but it is only an illusion.