Befogged in the slow dance,
both of us unable to sleep, busy
counting ewe, curves over fences,
unaware that morning would follow
its orange hue across the robin's egg sky.

As if all could be forgiven by our destructor,
or be a half-lit absolution of guilt
for the broken robin's song.

This obscene quiet,
ravaged by the proliferation
of stars. Everything comes
by accident; loves bypassed
in the plotting, the first telling
of a fable...

Where early magnets
were shallow streams;
the many swollen eyes of the water
staring up like old stones
through a blurred prison of ions.

The naive painted unsuspectedly
by the undertaker's hand.
We have won, lost, and now
have stopped counting.

Our feelings: anecdotal
as a far whiff
from warmer seasons.

Our expression: a mirage,
rendering the unnameable
as photographs-

so easily yellowed,
decomposed by air.

MARINA GIPPS

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-the-heirs-of-bad-proverbs/