F O R E V E R | & | E V E R

on

Something strikes at midnight
Not Grandfather’s hands, but
Insomnia

Comparing himself to six a.m., he
Finds abundance in my watchful
Eye

Like a flowering garden, my legs
Open to the acreage of wine
Vineyards

Pouring my tangible longing into
Grapes that burst over my lovers
Tongue

Crying out his name my eyes mist in
The syrup of sweet tea and smoke of
Cigarettes

Our birthright crosses a threshold
Waking the dead to remove their
Thoughts

Where we find a sleep that cradles
Us in a lover’s lair of deep intimate
Roots

We wake with such leisure, that our
Shadows never make contact with the
Clouds

We are consecrated like price tags that
Attempt to honor our craft in numerical
Values

The world applauds, yet our worth finds no greater
Admiration then the disregard of Grandfather’s
Hands