Let me just say this to you;
if we ever still talk on the next leap dayI will invite you to a lousy stargazing.
Science would advise us on properdates for this sightseeing
but there is no need for accuracy.Who said our clocks gauge us exactly
when there are leap years?Even a poet's metaphors are collected
in chips the way you find biscuit
crumbles on your pockets as a child,
still learning where to put the rightthings in proper places.
Such an uncouth dogmatism,I could never let you look like a fool
in front of the stars (or above them rather)so we will gaze at them in a coyly manner, such as this extra day
(Or night, rather)
whose parts are gone three timesalready in each year before---
an observation we got on thislong distance inquisition.
And then you'll get goosebumpsover their existence after their deaths.
This mischievous, silvery, fiery bruisesabove which gets prettier as they fall.
And so I will take a deep breathas I notice no difference
between your face and those above---if they possess souls then I might be
convinced of doppelgangers. Or just maybe.Who still care about accuracies
nowadays, no one reallyI tell you everyone now likes to play silly, living extra days, gazing on dead
existences.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.