Silent curve

sliver white
luminescing in solitude
amid the black endless.
Lighted candles float around you
but the lake of night belongs
only to your presence.
Single
lotus untouched
in your drift, constant,
along the deep flow.

Here, river a rushing of words,
like wind in the bow
of dark.
Moisture of that language
fills the air.

But you are always
silent. You cup your body
the way we do in sleep,
sometimes. White gown,
radiant an arc, tipped,
as if a slight dancer moving
backward, caught
in the one slow breath of night.
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Copyright 2007 Susan M. Botich