Joshua Ware Changing the 21st Century

Airplanes ascend into grey Midwestern mornings, setting the real moon of poetry
across the sky and away from me forever. Regardless of our personal fates
we all transport from summer into auroras of autumn: brilliant swathes of light
painting night with spectral beauty, a shapeless shadow
crowning the heavens with a wideness we call mystery. My human reflexes
guide me into the small pauses of your voice, nestling there momentarily
to rest within the comforts of your silence. In soft whispers, animals speak to you
as a man handles fish in a manner only afforded to dreamers
There are pieces of my life I will never understand, and there are other pieces
of my life I will understand even less. It's what we call the unknown
or perishing moonshine opening a door into a new trajectory
that leads us to dark languages written across your thigh in the washed
light overtaking us. You must understand the shape of your lips
moves me closer to touching what your letters mean to me
which itself is a dimly viewed panorama of a fragmented landscape

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