(warm)th, (gold)en
skin, a canvas for parody
warm(th), gold(en)
temperate air of melody
twists the tidal antibody
towards bowing phrase of prosody
(war)mth, gol(den)

I am rooted &
therefore I reach

the moon reflects

upon my feet, music is cubism
in twin with gritted teeth
a pavement keyed dark

& light pierced with golden
spindles of stacking

dust, inwardly green
with midnight, navy

a blanket of silence
worn to resonate

the needling breath
of forested speech, an echo
of the way we bend

the drive to appease
the mouth of serenity
revives the scant scent

to take inward
in drams of swallowed tithing
spiraled blood writhing

spread of skeletal
rise, of ancient hymns of birth
rooted vibration

the WHO in the hollow drowns
the wonder of the stretched ear

pre-dawn, the creased ear
throat’s trebled tessellation
feathers, gathered moths

phenome, paired, woven
nests wanting the glaze of dew
wing beats heart’s small drum

the distant echo
of symbiosis rising
in hued, petaled tones

ephemeral, the poured glass
of dawn’s edge in flight

the fortuitous
glance of the mercenary
crow falls wayside onto the silver

thread of the squirrel’s etching
tail, carving glyphs into the whispering wind

the caw
the glint
the acquisition

a few drops of blood

& a softening nest

twined,
grey & silver sing along
the edges of consciousness,
bolstering themselves
in the still

life of subtle breathing, the ear,
caught by midnight’s velvet

blue, drinking muted honey
dark’s elixir, a blanketed embrace

technicolor mind dance, coupled
with the gauzed feet of presence

these are Nox’s symphony of arms
wrapping awareness inside her
primordial soup

quantum is the spread
of delicate prize along the lines

of your face we drift, ghostly

through each other
in cycles & bowed lips

cupid ties our words
into knots, what piles

of consonant frayed vowels
reside in the cracks, the floorboards
posture themselves within

the crick of our bones
& we are picked clean

for the bathing
of the moon

supple grasp, branches,
or poured hem, Aurora's blue,
yield tightened birdsong

there is a nest we make, our arms weave
the lobe of an ear, corners, blanketed

the curve of your face puzzles my collar
bone, the way we used to fit, a reinvention

as the space we now occupy holds
separate weight, we balance against each other

& purposeful, you sand the lines
from my face