you say, for the umpteenth time that day,
then guide my hand across the world’s face
in an old light of tarnish and spice.
And though I know it’s just a dream,
and only death waits me when I wake,
I want to get it right, sensing
that the ease you share with forces
ordering things out there
in this other life is more than anything
I can know, alone in my antique
sun’s scented glow, misperforming
whatever troubles me so
until it brings you near, in the musk
and Troy-bronze possibilities,
to show me once again how it’s done.
About the Poet
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.
Vita Brevis Press. 