I am up to my ears in unwritten words.
If they could know everything
by simply peeling open my bed:
harps become the bed springs
and old sweaters for a mattress pad.
I sleep on smooth stones
and lilac tulips. my skin feels like
a quiet ocean.
I am warm but afraid the world
is freezing over.
What will we do with them all?
We cannot breathe
the cold will not break
us. The scene is but breath taking:
I have lived before with things taken away.
We spoke up last but stayed close to the fire.
We were the logs that kept it burning.
We were the ones who made blue light.
And in the end they will know us
by the color of our tongues.
We will walk along the east river
with large coffees and larger things
The water feels displaced:
a glistening gray next to constructed greenery,
it catches the glimpse of a building's stature
and says more than us could ever speak.