Salmon hands, Pacific hands, Pisces-born, there are flies in my sleep. <br /> <br />My emerald speaks in such soothing tongues, her eyes dance with lust, but I <br />cannot keep her. <br /> <br />There must be some chains that keep my coins; I cannot reach them. <br /> <br />Each of your fingers is a stalk of fire. My love for you is a new arithmetic. It knifes me with a smile. <br /> <br />The parade of hours knows only your name. But I am a pair of mirrored dice. <br /> <br />I am the martyr of damp sheets and trees peopled with whispering stars. <br /> <br />I am nailed to laughing truth and cannot street. Tomorrow is a theater, a priest, a patricide, champagne. <br /> <br />Trapped inside my poem there is no voice, only green breezes. <br /> <br />I am in love with the storm tumbling inside me. I’ll set a trap for patience.<br /><br />Larry Sawyer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-27-voices/
