May 9 by The Running Son
✥- F⊕ur C⊕rners -✥
I should send out my message
in smoke circles. Rings
of concentric intention, beamed tight
and outward, widening to include
the seconds it takes to breath.
Rings move through seconds,
before you sleep.
Can’t see you yet.
My ring is my word.
Of longitudes, or practically
any ring of commitment
I can band together.
Love has four corners.
The South and North
go cold and white
when circles mark the altitude,
and thin air makes
circular ice-caps ring, and clap.
The West is a circle of sun.
The East, full moon.
The tune of my heart travels
against daylight, follows the line
made when heavenly bodies run
for each other.
Northern lights allow them to play,
share beams like auras.
Like a broken spectrum of light.
that when reunited,
or just newly found, combine
to close circles—mouths
over impulses, that if allowed
would turn to the moon
and cry out; ringing
instructions to fix broken connections,
and complete circles
and concentric rings, and bands, waves.
I swear there is love to be made.
I can almost see you outline, radiating,
waiting to be sent to the globe’s corners
and to overcome waiting pain
by encircling it,
and pushing through it’s vbery fiber:
past strands and threads
and theories about strings
and the power of the whole.
takes corners on,
and softens the distance between us.
It looks for connections, closings.
Four corners, torn four directions,
that when harvested and sown
can be finally seen for what they are:
not corners, but a whole.
The circle goes round, and mends
And so arranged, the circle is sewn
and travels outward, a circle
of intention toward you, pushing
for clarity, slapping time aside,
round eyes holding,
my arms around you, closing.
I hear you
and I’ve finally closed
by Jim Aldrich