The Moya View

He Writes, She Dreams Their Sentimental Song

These are the things he scribbles

in the little white paper of his brain:

catch the movement

of passing shadows in a window;

search the clouds

for the feathers of a robin’s wing;

listen in the spaces of music

for the laughter of angels in hiding.


These are the things she knows today,

yesterday and maybe tomorrow:

that car mirrors, puddles, all silvery things

reflect unmated and backwards smiles;

that fluffy clouds contain the best animals

but layered ones hold all her best dreams;

that Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah

leaves her aching, reaching, unformed.


These are the things their future holds:

she will be his forever song,

the smile that remains in the shards,

they will be the only mirror they know,

that cotton days will pillow their dreams

and nimbus nights will rain their pain,

their life will be Hallelujah and prayer

and tiny angels will be their best dreams.


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