i sing of gold and white and of colors glorious like weddings in spring

***

this joint(ly) swollen with

fat.years and

salt like small splinters of debris

and it sticks and stinks and

all i want to do is

clean

it,

but cannot seem to

squeeze this ring past my knuckle

 

when at last i wrest it like:

candy taking from a petulant

crying baby) from my

angry awakening nervous finger

another ring behind is left

impressed into skin

the sleepy pillow face marks

of eternity

-soft and pale

like clean linens

and wrinkles creases scars scrapes that have

gutted up and pocked all others

are seen not there

not in this flesh

that is:

as a child’s face

young and smiling and new

,and groovily claspily holds and even seems to

close in around (like sheets tucking or

gentle nurse.hands  ,as tides washing warming in

,but never out.

)this battered

endless path

– of gold

***

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.   – Mother Theresa

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