Somehow, somewhere,
someplace deep inside we
are the recognition of the featureless,
the faceless approach us, arms outstretched.
Angels without voices
in milkdreams, singing soft songs.
Drink from my wrists, place your tongue to the mist
of my fallen innocence.
Pinkflesh. Lavender. Bergamot.
You have not spoken for so long and I am forgetting what
I swore never to let subside
but if this is the sound which was the beginning, it is also
the sounding of the end.
Tall fences outrunning perfect white lawns,
birds flying higher
behind the sunbreaks,
this paleness of my feathered breathing
pinned to the edges of a
neverreaching
dawn.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 