Just as the night like you

to drip into the morning-

quiet iris your womb,

your perfumed eyelid,

your kiss the clumsy silhouette 

like when your locks whisper in song,

to impress upon me your resounding thumbprint,

the awkward freckles of a pause...

 

     

   

In a ballroom, in a hall, red lips, rose red crimson, her blush sits atop her cheek, her eyes quite forgotten…

Lifts her chin from time to time, to a smile, to a word, to a curve as it drowns into her thighs, her calves the shape of rain drops fall unto the petal.

It is March, sweating, a wet midnight balm, dear brother how charming- her form lingers, her toes barefoot balk atop the floor.

In a ballroom, in a hall, lips blue, twilight blue lips, her hair belongs to the sky, a February stroll steps into the water.

It is March which tends to a yawn, beneath, within the way she disappears, ‘China,’ I say, ‘No they are Chinese,’ a French lullaby, cigarettes and lighters, I look, take a look from above her wishing to waterfall, to crawl into her home, of iridescent petals peeled impatiently before to bloom.

In a bedroom, in a hall, her listless voice drifting, dear goddess the wallpaper pales in insignificance, a pattern stripped from her armoire.

Standing beneath from under a lampshade moon, a broken toe to toe, to just a little closer, beneath the cover of an infinite hue, grey-blue here, from under beneath our nighttime umbrella-

‘Parsnip, come a little closer, let me tickle atop your teeth.’

You step closer, to step and step to step away, girlish yearning all thighs and coy, beneath the lampshade a broken blue, a choir of toes standing beneath the imperfection of a flowering midnight rose. 

'Broken heart, you
timeless wonder.


What a small
place to be.'

M. Ondaatje

I dream of our fallen voices-
I am awoken by the vestige of your breasts,
like legs of wine falling.

I hear our voices over a table,
again your elbows,
the distinct way you placed them,
upon a January night-

but it was not my place or way to stay as i have stayed before-

falling upon the empty vases,
the Aprils; the mornings when the windows spoke of our love
as children swing swaying in the park,
but in the mountainous challis of the dark red lips of a winter night,
when from under a crimson hood you let fall the beauty of a woman's face
kissed with the cold kiss of winter-

I kissed you,
my fingers snug atop your tufts of twirling amber;
invisible falling stars,
we enter drifting,
passing through a door,
another moment to notice,
your elbows kissing plates-

but the writing of the night above the corner of a thousand horns-

I peer into the window,
the dimly lit light,
endlessly smoking,
imprisoned within the portrait
of one anthers eyes-

the morning, the coffee, the door;
the staircase was an organ to my heart-
your colossal legs the steps to your beautiful cunt
which I should have drawn blushing,
bursting beneath a mauve duvet.

8

We walk and take to sitting, the swing swaying in Birchwood Park. The moon casts a glib shadow upon her, slim and leaning; she talks like a train, folds earth from under her tongue.

‘Is it the tequila or do you love as I the implacable buildings?’

It is quiet tonight from above where the garden often sings, the man whose hair is long and flowing, the heavy way he walks in the way of love-

like a stumbling drunken sailor each and every night in Calcutta, which lay upon our wall. The horizontal redeeming eyes, a vertical dress, and from then on I bathed within the song.

In the way of love...

A singular river flowing red organ, we are boundless beings- 

I have listened to the sesames and lilies, the way she curves like a tangerine kneels when the word becomes flesh.

The great romance of construction...

9

But of the man I met the other night:

I see him standing in the parvis, the bright blue grass garnished with the granular way we construct this endless talking, to acknowledge where I might be headed, the headlights and all the tired nights you must have seen on that beautiful California, it was a postcard you had shown me, it was not a picture, I remember now, seated and saying, yes but do you call her often?

If only we could find a way to break that which keeps me from coming to visit you and your cylinder candle.

10

From the coliseum where the lions have swallowed Rome,

the walls have a dowry of tigresses’ eyes,

the windows the eyes of Degas,

the brick top roads of amaretto-

 it is there where I have made ambrosia out of silence,

 speaking from the cracks within the boards.

If only to have seen the verdure,

the vernissage in Paris,

the colorful sidewalks,

the palatable street side vendors,

the women selling the New York Herald Tribune-

the story of her lumbering sienna curves, the concordance of her hourglass form, her rubber heels walking...

Yes! I am writing of the black ocean tempest dreams,

to love again in the black ocean of another’s eyes.

'It is such a secret place, the land of tears.'

-A.De Saint-Exupery

7

The moon collides, the door closes.

I sit, fix my pipe, have a puff while she dresses. She is laconic, the wind in increments, her anabatic breath treads.

The symmetry of her curves fluid from her neck to her toes like flower petals yawning; she stands like a waitress.

The corner of a thousand horns.

6

The furnace and the factory, circa 1984.

The giraffes, the grisette, her name is Griselda, we met whilst I was asleep; Griselda, the gray battle, the magic mountain at rest.

We walk and she talks,

I listen and she walks.

The venerable way of her womanly figure, the lines as they fall, ‘Griselda may I?’ ‘Yes.’ I press upon her slow like drifting Antarctic boulders, I fall into her and she vanishes.