Poetry By
Ankita Saxena
Published on: 2/21/2013
Magic Show
Together, we swirl the sun in lilac blue, and draw the curtains spray paint black; a lilting moon, some glitter stars, silver streaks and nothing else—he night is ours. I count your breaths, each round as one. At number two, the birds wind down, and fall in trees at number three. At number four I make my dreams, and after five I fall asleep. And when we wake, we turn the birds, and dunk the sun in orange blue. You spill the moon and sweep the stars—the day is ours.
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