Every shadow has its shadow

~ after Remedios Varo, “Garden of Love,” 1951; oil on masonite

And you were the bird that visited
me in the cage of my house, the warm
mustard of your breast a foil

to my ice-colored cast. I stood
on the threshold, having come
from miles of subterranean

engagement with myself, solitary
as a bull sitting in the middle
of a dirt-floor room where all

the shades are constantly dawn.
I admired your rosy winged
optimism, the blade

of your anxiety held in check
by its own gallant sword. Aren’t
we a pair? There’s hardly any

boundary left to cross, now that
we’re mostly on the same side; even
the forbidding woods have opened up.

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