When you set out
you didn't dream the world would take such liberties.
The sky is the colour of fruit, waiting to snow, to muster
up the courage to let it all go, to say if you leave don't look
back. Flurries like a bridal waltz, fluid and optimistic yet
wary of descent, of what comes next, of the way large fabrics
have the most loose ends, of the way the eyes that promise most
hold the most destruction. The sky is a fault line in a land
of dams, lace to unravel, to release a million little fictions.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.