For Paul, Dec. 23, 1985 – September 23, 2014


Paint me a picture
a narcotic canvas of recycled mornings.
I need to recapture
all the minutes blinked away,
cobwebbed in eyelashes,
flooded through static charged veins.


The amber glows, and whirring wheels,
the smell of turpentine and acoustic strings’ metal,
all of our rhythms, collective heartbeats
of dancers, artists, kings – we are
the crust of a party.


We peel the glow off of our skins
still burning from within.
We are without
reason, direction, form.


Then for a moment we are molten.
We slip back together and saturate home.


We are gold and, even as dust,
our gleam cannot be quenched.


©2014 Jesele M. Z. Paragone


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