Magenta Sunrise


I remember an angel 
	came to me
with soft wings & brown sandals
	& warmness in her eyes,

& she spiraled down like 	
	all those before her,
leaving nothing but silent imprints in the sand
	& her warmness in my hand.		

	(the lipstick on my ear washes off with soap & cold water)

& so it's true that there is no perfection,
	no ideal,
for nothing's perfect,
	nothing's best,
& all that you are left with 
	is merely the rest.

Yet let us gather around warm campfires
	under cold-moon skies
& cast our shadows 
	to cover the lies,

while we melt simply

	we can form sculptures
of broken hearts & popped tarts.

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Last revised: 5-27-02