You are a fool, you are death, where eyes decipher the plea in the thorns of a mother’s tree
if I ever had a dream it was not like this / bone split open and blooms /
Swaying in cool roots of white, I feed the earth from my hands and bones; the moonglow
you handsome devil, there is a dream impregnated to drunk poetry and death of consciousness like the bare feet of winter
the unseen darkness
and ghosts of madmen
pluck the death in me
with lady’s slipper petals
I’ve lived as a statue, a quiet child.
lonely, born in the ecstasy
this root of blood;
walk away into
the forbidden, unmade road
split and wounded
onto the cherry blossoms silently
with bloodshed, caressed to dreams
in the awakened winter, arak trees.
The partition of light slides upon the red, pale rocks shielded by the cluster of streams, a fossilized hue of the starlight in the refusal of blustering dreams.
A mere smudge of waterlogged forbidden Arcadia—tasseling a present vanishing in exile a solemn midsummer darkness prowling the streets in your memory.
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 pray, inclined to the retired hues of sandhills,
The moon had lowered its light to my hands,
As though I was passed by its shadow, never forgotten,
When the dark dusk covers the squill, a pack of doctrines
Laid memory in sight, emaciated by the mercy,
The cries caressed my overlapped palms to the words I impart
As these alone could not touch me.