Come to Me

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Come to me, soaked with sleep
when the yellow morning comes
to claim the windows.
Come to me when the butter-clouds
smear themselves on the seascape
of my tumbling, hissing town–
your hand white-flattened
against the glass. Come to me
sea-sprayed and quiet
as the swan’s foot peddling
the summer lake
in a park washed green with sleep–
you in a vision,
you as a ghost,
not bones, but skin and sky

from the carbon night, mined
of its wall of stars
over mumbling shore
and mermaid’s rock,
the honeying pearls of dawn.
Come to me, quick–
the crazy birds
have risen in clouds from the sand–
they come to me singing
their visions.
Out of their shadows, dod yma,
rolled from the vowelling sea.

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