Tuesday, March 08, 2005

the synaesthete’s love poem (draft)

And yesterday, blue tasted like licorice.

Even the wind chimes caused dizziness;

the ache of paper lanterns rotting

from the acacias. Perhaps the L

in my name makes you sad,

evokes a film where a woman

waves from a train. Or how

this horizon wants to be a hymn.

If you listen, you can

hear the holes in the alphabet,

the sounds lit by the lamps

of our bones. Perhaps

with this page I could fashion

a boat or a very convincing window.

A dress made entirely of vowels.

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