Inside my mind
Where you reside.
You set the clocks--
tick- tock.
untitled 1
My love is a dahlia.
A red so deep it is black
and a close spiral
of petals
its secret geometry.
Such viscous red warmth
under black
velvet petals.
Cogwheels
The brain:
a delicate machine.
Each whirring object
in it
spirals toward center
forever:
there is no
freshness.
But how
fast
some of them
go
emitting
such sparks.
Such
sparks.
the tight places
Looking for her
in
the tight places.
Red pressed
against black:
a petal.
Every color
overfull
of blood and shadow.
Between form
and substance
a narrowing:
she won't leave
the tight places.
untitled 2
alone
on the dark
street
biting
red lips,
not ripe
but
hot meat.
pressed
behind dark
ribs:
the red
wordless
meat.
vertigo
heat
white
garden walls
and still red
flower heads.
footsteps
on smooth still flagstone
winds
the ones
the black pine
moves in
v.
red
and black:
lips
and hair.
moves in
untitled 3
mist: gray,
deep in shape, and
trail of
white
protean skirt.
white
skirt's fall
over what gray
form
split
peak to
peak
falls
pale proteus
tangled from
shape to
shape
capricorn
a thrusting--
down, and ever
toward center.
shapes,
opaque--
apply language:
my love.
it is a dahlia.
or otherwise.
red
and black
below
the soil
and transient
pale root--
my love it is an iris
pale violet iris:
body splayed
open
like a hand
opened you,
pale violet iris
with the white and yellow
center.
static in
your split form.
the edges
of your petals
clinging
outwards
as though
the air
were wet
fruit
and you
the unpeeled
skin.
appearance restrained
though
only by ab-
sence of
a structural
flaw.
a stasis too
tight for speech
of love, maybe.
but love is poised
in your center
like a white and yellow
dawn,
rapacious
to swallow
pale violet.
red beaded iris:
fat red flower, the meat-color
of the inner lower lip:
repellent and hearty.
but press down and
yellow seeps out--
rich fluid:
yellow supports
tenuous crusts,
crumbling surfaces like
mica to the touch: a
terrible yellow--
red flower
the color
of an infected wound.
winter
brief taste of red
juice
under taut
skin:
seed splintered
between
white teeth:
red
spark
under
the massy stones,
under the pale roots.
the object
flickering shade in blackness.
an out as of the face.
look hard and find a swell of breast.
the sweet eyes and
taste in the plumbed mouth
like mercy.
put it behind. but
keep the image of
what it was
with care:
each element
breakable
as the skin of a petal.
eurydice
lost
to a snake
in a beekeepers garden
what song could touch her?
she was like bone china
under fine pink silk,
like ivory
ruby
onyx
honey
a song
resurrect in spring
to me the heads
of poppies turning gleeful
and rosy-cheeked.
the seed inside
ripens. it strips
off its
husk. it sets
the clock.
i
would rather die
than go so
hungry. the full cheeks
of the red poppies
wither and drop.
let me fall.
let me land
in the rich cold dark
and let
me eat
untitled 4
i want to
touch
your hair,
to be the touch
on your black hair.
nothing
but hands
drowned
in that black.
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