Down in the
blood corridors and
down in my flesh
I’ve been writing you –
my fingers and I,
you gave us things
to remember: soft
tracings of your cheeks
and chin, the keystrokes
of our solitude.
Morning eyes remind me
how much of you remains untouched,
how many discoveries,
whose stranger dreams remain.
As the day spins, songs climb out
of the minute details suddenly
from wherever they'd been waiting,
and you sing your way inside them,
inhabit them wildly
like bodies that belong to you.
Our mouths, wide, flood the chorus,
as they launch and intersect with us,
the great singers of the dead,
smooth of soul and rough of blues;
and just as we have a weakness
for living, they sing of theirs,
of how bodies feel good together,
and how we are glad to be weak.
(c) Stu Hatton 2005
http://wordyness.blogspot.com/2005/06/great-singing-voices-of-dead-2005.html
blood corridors and
down in my flesh
I’ve been writing you –
my fingers and I,
you gave us things
to remember: soft
tracings of your cheeks
and chin, the keystrokes
of our solitude.
Morning eyes remind me
how much of you remains untouched,
how many discoveries,
whose stranger dreams remain.
As the day spins, songs climb out
of the minute details suddenly
from wherever they'd been waiting,
and you sing your way inside them,
inhabit them wildly
like bodies that belong to you.
Our mouths, wide, flood the chorus,
as they launch and intersect with us,
the great singers of the dead,
smooth of soul and rough of blues;
and just as we have a weakness
for living, they sing of theirs,
of how bodies feel good together,
and how we are glad to be weak.
(c) Stu Hatton 2005
http://wordyness.blogspot.com/2005/06/great-singing-voices-of-dead-2005.html
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