The Lover

There is a man with a lute
his eyes thread clouds
sunsets line his skin, and
soil perfume his breath,
ever present, ever-awake—

He never speaks but through strings he sings
a yearning for what has gone and come
gone again…
like lovers linked in a dance,
spinning away till hands stretch
to the last filament
lingering long in a dream,
drawn tight like the strings of his lute,
sweet and cutting
till his hand pulls in and he spins
into his Beloved once more.


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