belief will be able to leave

[ belief will be able to leave its situation ]

My love is two crows
taking root in a field
of thistles

In love with you
against a white
backdrop soon there will be a wound

I dreamt
my head on your thigh
you limn a roadmap
I mean, highways somewhere

Goodbye kissing summer goodbye
I found a crow with multicoloured wings
and the mirage disappeared
* * * * *

She Caulked Her Anthesis

[ She Caulked Her Anthesis ]

She would not be left mithering unsalved. What seemed to be a choosing need not fallow. No longer morning, and softer in the urn. Listless a catchless ovum. Allow a body to quicken within space between soul and skin. Create one, then saline reconfigure another life. In what way will she resonate a certain alert repose? She decides before she wakes. Having the dead haunt in halfsmallness imbues a penetrable scape. What erases the tiniest trespass? No she thinks the mirror has no spreading smile, never luminous well-veiled bodies. Perhaps relief's within the first efflorescence. Where does her endometrial pang? (Within). Such dreary music. One of these days she sits erect. She melts the weather, without monument or truth among the early dead.

Sedge and mallow, behind forgiveness is skin, dead or burned or replaced
* * * * *

an apology of sorts,

[ an apology of sorts, ]

indigence of it anyway
might wince the cover blown

my divvies my timidity behind my most
slow going genuine concealment
my well with
weighings

accept the purpose anyway
accept the coquetry
in

flowering nevermind
generally what to see
possibly unwashed socks
intermingling and over
from

his tree
humble calamity the
opposites direction her
companion

wounds to make us feel
blood i never
knew you
* * * * *

Musee du Louvre

[ Musee du Louvre ]

My hands are Parian Marble called Venus de Milo
yes it's exquisite I am never
promising some nebulous
harangue de Caprice

It will be like the strain of an orchestral
you will twitch at our long history
                                      you
                                      try and seize my voice un-
                                                               hanging
Perhaps
you the endless unwrapping and babbling
have found a huge mirror behindme reflecting lost
                                                      oil'd
hyacinths

Perhaps
in the year of great Italian art
your sluicegates open
as my hands unmoor a temple to no god
* * * * *