To be held in the heart of
a friend is to be a king
but the magic of a lover's
touch is what makes my spirit sing
when you're caught up in this
longing all the beauties of the Earth don't mean a thing.
oh -- and the night grows
clear and empty
as a lake of acid rain
and i don't feel your touch,
again.
The last light of day crept
away like a drunkard after gin.
A hint of chanted prayer now
whispers from the fresh night wind
to this shattered heart and
soul held together by habit and skin
and to this half-gnawed bone
of apprehension buried in my brain
as i don't feel your touch,
again.
(Toronto, June 1987)
Marco Giunco |
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