In the sordid caste
of flowers, the wild
rise on their stems
for a name,

and rupture into light
through the copse of partridge berry
distances tumble over the wet colours,

like mauve tongues
along the thighs of an eventual sunrise,
that comes moaning free
of the unforgiving dark,
in the wet jazz soliloquies of light

and suddenly, through the lips
of Septembers lovely grind,
to bind the Summers cunning wounds,
your hands reach far into the blue hordes
of wildflower,

and redolent fevers, kindled
by some hummingbirds blurred
and exquisite agitation, you
are the body of my confession

and South
marks the same
unfathomable distance home,
over the prairie
that tonight grants calm,
in the balm of C minor,

a mute, sibilant liquid dream of rain
soothes, my voice grows hoarse
and stills, though from the hush of willows,
rasps the vast reservoir of wind,

as the jay, a blue throb in the holly, casts
my hue in lush cascades of desperate, abandoned braids

lift the fevers muslin depths
and these unaccompanied words, sing
a sonata
proverbs in petty sounds
spill from a cracked jaw
and a parched throat,
in the Sabbath of the heart

heaven never thought to map
this distance and its jubilee
over wildflowers, I bear
your name to stay the mauve hour

of devout crickets,
crouched in the rain,
dying in the thick falsetto of mist
and the sordid hum of birds, dim
in their hollow cote,

and sudden blue, sudden blue,
how I adore you....