I'll peer through the flaxen strand
of night
with your color that excites,
and think myself the blue pither of fire
or a flummoxed stone left unturned.
it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable
beast or the common grip
of the eye's gift for unsparing detail.
it's the way the queen moves to all
corners unclenching a fold of sidereal,
and then like a child with almond eyes
spruced up, spritzed this morning's
incandescent dye,
the lapping of strange tides revealing
fish with dreams of brine
or that one moment when you had
at first light, the hot flush of coming
into, recognizing insatiable appetite,
whistling its overdue intent and the detritus
we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of once and never looking back
at mirrors.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
I'll peer through the flaxen strand
of night
with your color that excites,
and think myself the blue pither of fire
or a flummoxed stone left unturned.
it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable
beast or the common grip
of the eye's gift for unsparing detail.
it's the way the queen moves to all
corners unclenching a fold of sidereal,
and then like a child with almond eyes
spruced up, spritzed this morning's
incandescent dye,
the lapping of strange tides revealing
fish with dreams of brine
or that one moment when you had
at first light, the hot flush of coming
into, recognizing insatiable appetite,
whistling its overdue intent and the detritus
we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of once and never looking back
at mirrors.
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