In Love
The bells chime,
The lyre, harp, and trumpet;
The notes are the rays
Of the moon, the mirror
Of the sun; the beam
Of your eye Eternity
Of Evening, a time
Of stars that puff
Apart as flower leaves.
Spin, spin in that field
Blown of flower
Buds of sound,
Petals structured
Of refraction solidified
By jewels decked
In the wind, embedded
In your heart
By the sun’s hands.
S. T. Brant (he/him/his) is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter @terriblebinth or Instagram @shanelemagne.
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