We pick out gravel,
past pieces of guilt that grate
against our bare feet.
As if ordered to woodsheds,
our Moses’ deserts,
by vituperous verdicts handed down
miles apart, we were targeted for our kind fair,
entrailed in hand-made, man-made,
manic messes until
our recent redemptions reigned.
Our bowed heads
no longer clustered with disasters’ tattered, dusty wings.
Sunlight divine slings lovers,
you and I, around sliver moons made for two.
Yet lingering clouds trail our fragile wisdom,
sift our sensual flesh restored,
through starlit moments that mark
our A.D., its blessed beginnings
of this, our tilled, stilled, quiet
of belief. Our soft shadows shimmer
into autumn’s warm, coffee-kissed mornings,
our limbs moored to present time,
perfectly pinned upon fragrant sheets,
tacked against our dawn’s whiteboard of hope.
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