Pseudopsychosis.

The death
of cellophane air
fuchsia flowers by the Pigalle,
ocean pale, in this dream;
Camellia’s perfume, her tree bones
close to death
are twigs in the mistral wind,
the quiet 
my mother taught me
as I learned or tried 
to learn half the Hebrew alphabet for her.

I tell you, I was a child then,
mon chèriette
a baby in her bones,
with a quart of the Conassauga river
in her hands;

blackbirds now fall by the sandalwood 
sunsets, and I die in the chords
at four AM; the honeysuckle ripened
from my window and I look towards my son—
my black cat
he sleeps as the lotus petals fall;

there is no death
in the buried tree,
as demitasse ghosts lie
following mental nuclear winters
barefoot 
in the tongued darkness,
how it leaves me, it leaves me;

desert mouths,
sun blush; dark and veering
the birches, like an exquisite 
battered perfume, blood rubies
part their lips; some prophet
can carry me 
to the apple limbs
and soon abandon me to shore.
But there is no prophet I grasp, no, not for me.


Through the smokestacks
there is the death of me
as I pass the hills. 
I see the little girl in the glass; 
her pale epidermis. Undress me,
and the wounds,
steal her womb too 
into the autumn death,
lest these hills assombrir
and bruise;

fingers of rock,
weeping blood and grapes,
wines to the illumine baby’s breath
before we all die,
leave me, that’s all I ask of you,
please leave me.

09/20/2020

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Heavily, HEAVILY inspired by Sibylle Baier’s I Lost Something in the Hills.