Slow motion silence
And wind is full of moments
And eyes are quiet

We can manage a dull afternoon
When punished lilies
Imitate the army of rebel waters
Sneaking away on tiptoe
From an empire of lawful soil

Watchful of flood signals
We will wait for a jealous wasp
To peel back the detonators
For springboard demolitions
Fancied on limp petals

While soldiers of nectar’s plight
Talk over plans with bees
We see an enemy of discreet magnitude
Inside us, a showering of infernal degrees
Our hearts soaked in criminal teas

Her dancing explodes
She electric spectacle
And all eyes on her

I could appreciate her today. I had been watching those golden gestures compliment the frame of elegant houses. And for moments alone on a reflective sidewalk, I had forgotten what my face looked like. Yes, she was a whistler of pastel importance. A type of language only significant when the island pores of sensitive humans bleed open shamelessly and without counsel for their tears. The afternoons have a style all to their own, and I remember glass.

Flying yellow bag
A blonde queen of afternoons
Joyous mystery

While on a beach, when she kissed me with the urgency of a sensitive poison, I could not help but scatter across the shore-lengths, the households of my heart, allowing room only for the remedy, I looked beyond her and forgot to make room for her smile, that went unnoticed fading as a shadow on my face.

Curtains drape naked
She philosophy priestess
A necklace is found