on writing

a song I thought was silent
glistens like scales of fishes still -
in the dry country whipped

by winter winds wanting to
enter windows, my fingers
tingle as they point north

I wear a dress, magnificently torn
poised on the wingtips of angels
but no - angels are not for me

you smile and congratulate yourself
the world now is as you've wished
there is no more hurt and calamity

and we can forget the rest
it is a wonder to see your shadow only
doors opening that I must pass through

a summer field, a church of gold
time splits here and finds the notes
between Monday morning and

the words that I've stolen