Friday, February 10, 2017

Alina Gregorian: MANICURED SKIES?

We move keyboards to different locations.

Because nothing exists without mauve in your voice.
It’s red, dear.

It’s a noun without color, analogies without verbs.
The way you coordinate galaxies using your eyes.

The way you kiss, leaving post-its on my cheek.
What’s the weather like in Hawaii?

Blue skies with grey streaks.
Like being on a farm in a computer.

Like taking lemonade to a string quartet.
You sold your clothes and got in bed.

“We make a dwelling in the evening air.”
Said Wallace Stevens.

We said hello to the illusion of something there.
Like conditioning verbs to say hi to adjectives.

So many people print documents in the night.
So many people buy bagels in Seattle.

You draw guitars on my arm.
Your lamp is like a bell.

You said.
A thought inside a ship.

This poem appeared in issue 5 of Poetry City, USA

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