372 Readings | 10 Ratings
My periodic darlings
There is always a bell
buzzing under your step, tone as the total
hours trapped between each frosted lawn.
A mockingbird has died
underfoot, the worms winding through the wet
of early morning: sixteen white-bodied crescents.
What delicate figures in the drained world
wrested from this inconspicuous sky.
The morning will not tell me anything
today, but I love you when I mistake your moan
for a loon, stitching up
the gasp in dawn. Tuck the sound
under our welcome mat for a keeping.
Hours pass us into light,
handed in this way to another
degree of our waning: whose chime
and whose chimera?
The plum trees outside the window shake
their false snow from a million pinked fists.
Buckets of blossoms kept in our garden shed
imply a lag in the counting.
I roll the petals between my fingertips,
calling forth my dawning chrysalis from spools.
And mingled with another hair,
your writhe under covers, overgrown
with ardor. Oh, the pleasant punch you deliver
each time we open in animal.
buzzing under your step, tone as the total
hours trapped between each frosted lawn.
A mockingbird has died
underfoot, the worms winding through the wet
of early morning: sixteen white-bodied crescents.
What delicate figures in the drained world
wrested from this inconspicuous sky.
The morning will not tell me anything
today, but I love you when I mistake your moan
for a loon, stitching up
the gasp in dawn. Tuck the sound
under our welcome mat for a keeping.
Hours pass us into light,
handed in this way to another
degree of our waning: whose chime
and whose chimera?
The plum trees outside the window shake
their false snow from a million pinked fists.
Buckets of blossoms kept in our garden shed
imply a lag in the counting.
I roll the petals between my fingertips,
calling forth my dawning chrysalis from spools.
And mingled with another hair,
your writhe under covers, overgrown
with ardor. Oh, the pleasant punch you deliver
each time we open in animal.
Posted 07/30/09