Sunday, November 21, 2010


Fragile frame on toothpick stilts,
I hover with my head in space clouds--
nebulae of dreams made of sequined dust.
My knees quake like a baby bird's,
wings just as useless.
I am swept along by the currents
always dancing to keep my balance.
These limbs are stronger and more nimble than they seem.
At such heights, bright cold does funny things,
bronzes and blushes cheeks
painting maps onto my face.
I can't know where I'm going
half blind with colors in my eyes.
I will not sleep, not even at night
when the black satin sheet beckons.
I keep knocking at the sky,
plucking stars out of the dusk.


© Farhana Jahan

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