words & pictures
The morning has holes Like a summer leaf Withered by all those excesses The swelling lymphatic process Curtailed again, in that shirking act That ebbs in sacrifice Closes, a bent fist Inside the marble of your eye Thought you had turned the world Inside out, the moon-thin meniscus Serpentine and fluttering, in return from sleep For that, the ocean dark below All the pooling magma Defying sunrise (you said the name Of some lost shape) Between wakefulness, and The still suffused surface
At the beach we fall like Carthage Tasting salt In the dunes butterflies grace Small stars on the bramble bush Bright as copper burning There is no one here but dreams of wanderers Worn as sea glass In twisted nubs that fire never made Green and agate against your lips A taste like mermaid skin, you say I say, as if For curling winds We bow our heads Your face big as the sea-lorn moon Pocked with hollow frowns A garland temple on your brow Pollen on your breath All fell down Two mouths make butterflies, of course Flying away In utter blue To wind-torn speechlessness
