Oh

by Christos Polydorou

The remains of
dreams

dreamt
are embers, or petals,

scattered, in
circles, for morning
birds. So we score

circles
on condensation,
in sifted flour,

or on our lover’s
lips. The lips
of heaven

have never
flowed through
me, like a party,

or a river,
divine breath,
holy tongue.

Ooh-ooh,
sing to you.
Oh

glorious one.
Oh,

the sun!

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