There Are Days Poem by L.B. Temuco

There are days
when we are formless, and
and
we become anything
we want to be
we want to see
we want to taste
purpled-ash
There are days
when we are flawless, and
and
we sleep in the austere questioning light
of perfection
There are the nights, too
before they thin themselves
when we are something divine
God's hand in water
You are vermillion then
thoughtlessly alive
your legs like wings
trembling
your face an essential lucid breath
your skin the ache of nature's discontent
Unseen, we wait,
hardly shadows
in this inexorable grace