Born at the age of sixteen To again experience the cusp of noon sun At the bottom of orangeade syrup Indelible on your tongue, permanent In a mid-summer twilight At the touch of sweat skin and wet ears On maple arms and black foot night Singing to the will oβ the wisp (Leather bound a thought They will read it, perhaps pay And take pleasure in your hymn As verse of summer knows the animus Which lightens the load of eβryone)
Ineffable are his hands on terra cotta walls A hot whisper in the ear and cotton lips Which press the skin on beachy nocturne To the ocean, the unforgiving expanse That vomits all my woes Which I throw back into it To again experience the cusp of heat And boiling blood and salty extravagance The emotion at an apogee That makes the world a rumination of wonder (Not to live without fault But to thrive in its decadence)
The heat of twilight cakes my legs in shorts On yellow sunspots, glowing in his amber eyes Soon, to appear on the cusp of gothic moor During the late ombre effect of dusky sky When its nighttime cataract reveals, the moon A pitted moonscape The moor is silent and whispers to its dwellers If I were to find him there, in the fresco Etched into the crystal caverns of night Would he respond in the marsh With the crickets between the reeds Or the owl on the ground mole As the whispers of naiads?