harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
you paralyse the plays of my flesh for when we had been daisy fresh as children. our palms gave out over the roses and the granite of my home, where you had entered through night light and an opened window —
i cannot but love your duvet dozingly cheek, as it is with the days we lost where i was away from you. a swiftly lined neck — that i would peck with petulance and a prayer when it was made fresh as the bed, (when i came home to lay close to you.)
lucette had never died before: in a heavy cobalt covering and i knew it too — in her virginal lashings that our honeyed glazed hallowed eyes (seeweed eyes) hovered over the arch of your brow. in medicinal sleep we were welcomed by the wave from the deep that took us away from your coaxing calls —
but that i cannot but dream that it would be made right again: your alien's mouth mimicking love's trails on another's empty throat: where i had doted, rested a tearful cheek not long ago.
(12/03/2018)
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