Etch I questioned the gone creatures; the bunting’s holy trill. Fury questioned sleep’s shape. Then mouthed a track back over the stream. Every closed doorway stayed closed. So we traveled through patterns of water no longer bound by the lunatic body and it’s odd permissions. I could see the dry hills were already moonlit erasures, a legible oat-color blur, like this room immaculately lit with condolence. We, who this folded wing posesses, light the hour of death. Announcing its tiny midsummer blossom. You would no longer whisper with your lips close to my throat. So I lay my throat just under the knife. It’s blade loves the ember’s violet between us. *** Your soul left slowly as a diminished collection of goldfinches leaned like shadows through an oleander blast. A stray breath in your chest purpled, lichen flaking stone’s shriven heel. The walls pulsed a sleepless dream water. And a white-tail star trailed the doe up the bank and out the window. Baptized by the brown robin’s chest, bellflowers branching quatrain. Oak, (lulled secrets, scented insomnia with myrrh) a new syntax, a silver-sable autumn; cobalt night without water. By Maureen Alsop
Posted on: Thu, 19 Sep 2013 01:33:28 +0000
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