In Focus

 

I focus on the sun’s rising

rather than on the heaviness of my tongue

drooping in my mouth 

with the weight of the unspoken

with the weight of your lips

not taken back with a kiss.

 

I cannot sleep.

I focus on the sun’s rising

even as the moon projects itself into the sky

After all, what is the moon without the light it borrows.

Though in fairness, who are any of us 

without the light of those around us. 

 

I will comfort into my muscles

and pray for the return,

I focus on the sun’s rising

filtering through frosted window panes

a spidering memory emerging behind falling eyelids.

I try to taste the coffee that has not boiled yet.

 

And is dreaming not a virtue?

In a garden somewhere

I whisper secrets to the flowers about how 

I focus on the sun’s rising

more often than I think about where it is in the sky. 

I make lullabies of these confidences.

 

The petals weave themselves back into youth.

The words will taste the same when the buds turn again 

to blossoms, the second-coming metamorphosis.

But perhaps my tongue will differ, perhaps then

I focus on the sun’s rising

only at dawn.

 

When I wake, though

the frost lingers, no flowers today.

None except the one I mold for you

hands sticky with clay and promises,

realizing my love has always been born when

I focus on the sun’s rising.