David Hickman

It is not death
but sleep in the tower
that pulls your taper
up the winding stairs
to crack the door
where the woman sits
and spins her wheel
in the ragged dusk
and when you fall
splintered by the cot
on the wheel,
and horse and dog
and king and queen
remember themselves
in a dream of thorns,
know that a man
turns thorns into roses
to pace the halls
to the tower stairs
and kiss your lips
in the castle of morning
till even the fly
that hangs frozen on the wall
will gather his wings
and live again.


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