We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding
our purple bruises
into rose hips.
Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.
Our lives of lavish luxury
lives as lapis lazuli.
The banks of the Ipswich
call out:
silhouettes behind birch bark.
Remember
how we used to swim
her waters;
tread her auric ebb?
We aim at deer, at ripening
persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.
We aim at killdeer.
Kiss a wasp.
We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.
As midnight, we are
films noir:
we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,
speaking and kissing in tongues,
her mouth tasting
of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow
melting
down her rose hips.
We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.
We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
We are a vesica; both/and.
We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding
our purple bruises
into rose hips.
Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.
Our lives of lavish luxury
lives as lapis lazuli.
The banks of the Ipswich
call out:
silhouettes behind birch bark.
Remember
how we used to swim
her waters;
tread her auric ebb?
We aim at deer, at ripening
persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.
We aim at killdeer.
Kiss a wasp.
We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.
As midnight, we are
films noir:
we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,
speaking and kissing in tongues,
her mouth tasting
of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow
melting
down her rose hips.
We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.
We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
We are a vesica; both/and.
We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.
