Could it be the moon or the round windows,
the black mouth of the guitar flagrantly spruce or
the rim of a teacup funneling steam. Could it be
your neck and the tubes, the tubes bloodied
with air, silence and the chatter of aluminum
cans. Could it be the caged fan or the castle
of an ashtray. Could it be the ball casually thrown.
Could it be the ball, the waltz, the rondeau.
Could it your iris, hazel and studded or those
pupils, windows and the moon. Could
it be the snake that swallows its own
tail or the turn of a dog gleeful with his.
Could it be a vowel and the suspension
of song. Could it be a dog. Could it be
the ring never removed or the hand
that slipped it on. Could it be the ring
or the studded moon. Could it be the moon,
the purse of your lips and the breath
of a kiss — held and ever holding.

Image: Sergii Bozhko on Unsplash

2 Thoughts

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