Your fist opens
like a spray carnation

I pick at its pink petals
teasing it to take my fingers
and weave them between yours

for us to hold hands
as the sun beams down on us

burning the flowers to dirt
offering them back to the Earth

Poetry is not often a
Circle. More a snare.
Noose in my hands.
Chiasmus is thorough:
I am locked in.

I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.

His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.

Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.

It is unlatched
so two shades of blue shine
      unseen, darkening.
There is no pale impression from
the ceiling light, just indigo,
      just midnight,
ink on a page unread.
You can’t make out the dust
      spiraling
anymore. You can’t remember
the last notes played here,
      anymore.

When stretch'd on one's bed
With a fierce-throbbing head,
Which preculdes alike thought or repose,
How little one cares
For the grandest affairs
That may busy the world as it goes!

How little one feels
For the waltzes and reels
Of our Dance-loving friends at a Ball!
How slight one's concern
To conjecture or learn
What their flounces or hearts may befall.

How little one minds
If a company dines
On the best that the Season affords!
How short is one's muse
O'er the Sauces and Stews,
Or the Guests, be they Beggars or Lords.

How little the Bells,
Ring they Peels, toll they Knells,
Can attract our attention or Ears!
The Bride may be married,
The Corse may be carried
And touch nor our hopes nor our fears.

Our own ****** pains
Ev'ry faculty chains;
We can feel on no subject besides.
Tis in health and in ease
We the power must seize
For our friends and our souls to provide.

she awoke
like an aubade-
a song greeting the dawn.
her eyes blinked the morning dew away;
the sleep dissipating like fog rolling over hills and out of sight.
her body was full of stories,
of dreams-
she sang wordless lullabies in
amaranth and ivory.
it hurt her, i think,
to craft worlds from impetuous grins and
the lazy dip of cherry blossoms in spring.
her veins hurt from the
strain of harsh lights and panic attacks in public bathrooms,
her veins hurt from the monotony of school
and the dull, numb throbbing of a
barely there headache.
She would come home,
after a particularly long day
and stare at herself,
not recognizing who stared back.
sea foam on her lips and
glitter shimmering upon her cheeks,
she broke the world apart with her bare hands
and climbed inside.

O Love, O pure deep Love, be here, be now,
Be all – worlds dissolve into your
       stainless endless radiance,
Frail living leaves burn with your brighter
        than cold stares –
Make me your servant, your breath, your core.

The sky was lit
by the splendor of the moon

So powerful
I fell to the ground

Your love
has made me sure

I am ready to forsake
this worldly life
and surrender
to the magnificence
of your Being