Golden Dragonfly and the Step
“they travelled a long”—Maria Stepanova
Color arrives when my eyes turn inward from winter’s wake, the sky turning its white hue’d whale skin, inside out
When in the morning comes the sputtering of tongues flapping,
as I settle between your legs, honey'd from sleep and finger dream,
each of our breasts small coins of copper dusted by the myrrh
that comes swept up from the corner by the occuli of night
all of which allows to settle our over-long bones upon the reedy pond of this life,
take what it may and recumbent:
shorn of weight, stiff of loss spurting toward larvae we could not have imagined
rutted in the muck of this beauty, both black and talcum and amber tickt.
The theatre of lines, a pavilion of shadows
The afternoon spirals upward, your pelvis pushing against hope
that soft undercurrent diagraming beneath a surface which hovers:
from some long-sorrowful echo when comes a landscape of nourishment,
groins and breast and beacon all lit up
the beads of skeleton'd sounds like rusted cans scattering, aplum.
So we too, gathered, are at run, coke bottles for legs
Orion's buckle cackling.
Will it as the earth breaks its spiral spun thin as flax,
the weight of your heart in her palm,
in need of some quiet against all the raging inside and out...
To shift through hickory and honey-comb'd light...
To unseat a wobbly head and regain the recumbent, flickering heart
If I were to live but a day,
this is the world over which I would copter.
So much to pick through from the shoreline and the noticing,
even if the wings grown soft from the pushing,
even if the breath grows hard from the tugging.
An approach of light, as if an eye unlocking
Gravity aroused and turned upside down; pulled up-weight by its magnificent, rusting bootstraps,
soaring, tumbling and still through cornered air, around blocks of cement, inside white-walled halls.
We carve light from shadow; husk cob of time from skin of shadow,
draw circles out of incurable lines.
