Salmon hands, Pacific hands, Pisces-born, there are flies in my sleep.
My emerald speaks in such soothing tongues, her eyes dance with lust, but I
cannot keep her.
There must be some chains that keep my coins; I cannot reach them.
Each of your fingers is a stalk of fire. My love for you is a new arithmetic. It knifes me with a smile.
The parade of hours knows only your name. But I am a pair of mirrored dice.
I am the martyr of damp sheets and trees peopled with whispering stars.
I am nailed to laughing truth and cannot street. Tomorrow is a theater, a priest, a patricide, champagne.
Trapped inside my poem there is no voice, only green breezes.
I am in love with the storm tumbling inside me. I’ll set a trap for patience.
Larry Sawyer
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-27-voices/
