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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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