in the white blossoms, fresh snow falls the night paradise lost into the womb
And then when it comes to dreams, Do not speak of them to me
In our face like waves, receded with flickers That are evasive in our bones with ferity Void of discovering dreaming, these fluencies In evocative tremors, prospering the pigweeds In the fallen dusk arcs upon the belts of snow, Appearing to crawl, swaddled within a darkroom In the depths of your mind
And I fall before the red branches, frail, wholly upon the utter stone that reared none for blood-sake, And I kneel before the laughter and its fever, and its pride, From before the evening of the distant fire among the blackened ocean, a beige fog, Which lured me alone, I called out to you
And I will wake from frail calls, lonely, enkindled by the breeze. I will wake in silent hope that glares its rays upon a sere trunk, As gently a shadow passed through that made me say of this Podunk, “Alone, brighter than the starlit partings, tides you a dream
And I rest my hands on the twilit moorland on the river’s expanse as I plea “For the love of God!” in a tunneling light, haunting laughter.
I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world
The pomace piled on the path of rain, And we were on the dim stones and bloodroots And stamped, feeding fleurs de lotus; The moon pardons in a red silence
my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the chimneys with the grotesque sticky saps on the creaks of spotted ghosts
Light, midnight, On moorlands, summoning fate, Alone, viceroys break Every pretty tear that rises
Will you be by the river? My shadow stays. What would it leave to the torn skin where lights retreat? As I wonder, I know it will be away.
I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls The northern river kneels, beating pearls, As the shawl darkens in the ghoul of silence in the wind.
Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone, Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set, Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again, That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland
As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree, That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground, And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream, That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog, Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock, That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.
Shines above, the light that finds The sea’s protest and the dream of a wildflower, Where the trees of death were made with patted seeds
The weaved hung warmth of vernal flame, That which kissed upon the tears through The hollowed smoke, which turns the eve.