Poems to Minna - Part 13
The mellow anger of his hair
Disputes his sleepy girl's face.
His robe glows like a painted wound
Upon the bent meditation of his body.
His hands are so thin that silence bruises them:
Thin from the pressure brought by endless prayers . . . .
When you were with me I did not know
That your voice was pouring him out in molten colors
To be shaped by the fingers of my memory —
This prince-made-of-many-dead-loves.
Disputes his sleepy girl's face.
His robe glows like a painted wound
Upon the bent meditation of his body.
His hands are so thin that silence bruises them:
Thin from the pressure brought by endless prayers . . . .
When you were with me I did not know
That your voice was pouring him out in molten colors
To be shaped by the fingers of my memory —
This prince-made-of-many-dead-loves.
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