There are words that sparkle
grey in your eyes
cut over a tall, rising building on the skyline
I’ve heard poetry before,
read works that glanced off my
mind
sleet ricocheting from a tin roof
rebounding desperately back
into some distant corner of some
unremarkable spiral galaxy
But your words are mist clinging to deep, verdant ferns
and the glance of a lone tendril of
spider-silk
held aloft by sunlight
Thick moss, creeping from fae to forest at
the base of a tree
a ballroom floor and perfect pillow
The light rain that pricks at your skin
descending with a gentle hum from wandering clouds
and whether pure chance,
or unknowing meditation
Your words belong to no one
a song of the spheres
