Like clear snow falling,
a March rain is beating its cold tempo
against a wet metallic morning light.

Inside a blind keyhole, dark clouds
crack the city’s stillness,
a chill crawls under my skin; and

your mouth is a wild butterfly
primed with love’s name because
we have sent wishes to our hearts,
one second at a time, and still,

love has been wounded. A dove
is bleeding.

Slowly, your soul has opened its eyes
as if a crazy romantic trembling
imperfect rhymes and tender sighs,
opening the whole sky’s ocean; and,

your eyes are windswept waves salted
with warm tears because we have
set fire to our hearts, one minute
at a time, and still,

love has been wounded. A dove
is bleeding.

A thousand crystal hours gather
in our names, gathering candles
and spring, lavender and silk,
secrets, dreams, and wet mouths
upon our bodies like

dancing moons and nightingales
because we have set fire to the dark
one flame at a time, and still,

love has been wounded. A dove
is bleeding.

A perfect whisper with its purity
placed a promise upon our ears,
and we could hear each word

as if gypsies spreading a potion
of roses and jasmine, crescent moons
and willow trees, and sending

a river of fingers, mouths, hands,
over our bodies, and setting fire
to our blood, one pulse at a time,
and still, love has been wounded.

A dove is bleeding.