“It is the sun’s tale,” he whispered, “and I know it by heart.
How your pink-shaded cheek fit tender in the palm of my hand
Eyes–locked magnets to the mirror of my pupils
I always declined in faith: I was not ready.”
It must have been that he saw turquoise tides in her curly hair
Rippling in laughing coils
Or a half moon in her numb lips
Wrists striped in braceleted madness–that was when he turned away.
Fear is his ghost
It binges and gluts on a sane head
With words that are upchucks of senseless ragamuffins:
Their meanings need no coaxing
His hands do not feather her in cupidity
Only ‘till her breast is a turf, blanket flecks of snow,
Humming, humming.
She brings him a stack of cotton pillows
As this is when they string their love in sleep
When the ceiling is expanding, the color of radon,
They heard the machinery of the thunderstorm
Lightning in the shape of angel heads
An aureate clock glitters in the sky: a number line of beads
Now they enter into an enamored utopia
Sync into mania
He will not kiss her with a crystal lens: it must blur
For dreams too, are heartless; they envelop our eyes
As well as a beguiled spirit
The stars mock the couple. Or perhaps they chase them.
But he wakes, she wakes, they wake,
Startled and spinning, as an eyelash dispersed in air
She cannot cry for him, as he built bricks between them
They are immured by a howl
Soundly, it clings
To her throat, his mind for something to drag down.
Breath quavers then stops.
Are the two fated or young innamorati?
Is it for which her hands perform his script?
His peridot tears glisten, as the lime spring leaves.
They penetrate her heart. Slow, amorous cravings
That yield, that yield, that yield.