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CAROLYN FISHER Epithalamium for the Moon and a Breeze Across the bed, through open curtains, the moon throws its broad bone of light over the confusion of our limbs like a door swinging wide into the night. The wall is excited by our shadow and the filigree of a tree, leaves play the length of your thigh like a piano: the breeze turns a tune from wind-lit keys. We are immured by a rhythm, the bars of a melody that free us from the cacophony of imperfection. Airs grace the room and we become two notes in a song as flawless as the chords are strong.
CAROLYN FISHER
Epithalamium for the Moon and a Breeze
Across the bed, through open curtains, the moon throws its broad bone of light over the confusion of our limbs like a door swinging wide into the night. The wall is excited by our shadow and the filigree of a tree, leaves play the length of your thigh like a piano: the breeze turns a tune from wind-lit keys. We are immured by a rhythm, the bars of a melody that free us from the cacophony of imperfection. Airs grace the room and we become two notes in a song as flawless as the chords are strong.