, , ,

If the sand and the snow
switch and the salt is sprinkled
over and what I am is a flower
or a flame, drifting up
out of the dirt, then
your face is on the horizon
blowing at me and you become the
earth and the mountains become
your knees bending
on the sky, my bush becomes ashes
and your red is the sunlight-
lips sailing away, you are not
as contrite as you say your are
and my prayers are not concentric,
but we will bend until we
feel eternity touching our palms