Imperfect Legs

Your imperfect legs
squatty and muscled and fecund
a couple places of cellulite
were mine
for thirty-six seasons.
Mine kept from the stars
kept from eternality.
Lying warm
in darkened bedrooms
in New York City
or in sundresses and statuesque
under the everlasting skies
of Mexico and Texas.

They are beautiful and sacred now
in my memory
underneath the overarching sky.
Your life remains lasting
in me
corporal and ethereal
what the summation of human journeys
calls perfectness, imperfectness
and
love.
A journey arched before the cosmos
in
my heart.
I chased the waters of the Mediterranean
in Turkey
to recreate you.
The light continues to praise you.
It journeys and journeys.

The birds make their way
towards the sun
in the morning.

The winter’s here.
Your imperfect legs are gone.

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