The Many Ways You Can Marry In ‘high Windows'
Poem By Greta Bellamacina
your arms are sunset sonnets
made of pavement oak
filling the rain passing
altering the winds to the country tide.
eight hundred ways, manned by the atlas of longer worlds,
your love it is skywards for
the holds of gentle eyes
that surround the river's skin
only to break deathstones for time in the sky.
Back to your house built to wood
back in the almost horizon sun,
your love is the eve of.
Gazing down every street
In the beginnings to unmorninged heights
of the many ways you can marry in ‘high windows',
read in windfelt light birds
of distanced swung skies
that are left to you, which are setting.