Old Mother’s hands shook,
When pouring my tea
And I’d
Savor the scent of hyacinth.

Old Mother’s hands shook,
When scribing time
And I’d
Wed her fatherless daughter.

Old Mother’s hands shook,
On cloud, under crevice,
And I’d
Lift her cup to lip;

Old Mother’d drink,
Her hands, like the trees,
And we’d
Both cry tears of ecstasy.

I do not think that I am safe
because I love you.
You are breathtaking in the sort of way
you just never get used to.
The pulsing of your ichor heart is unhesitating,
relentless.
You are all red popsicles melting
in the heavy June sun.
Letting you rough me up a little bit.
I love you like a boxing match I won't win.
Fog so thick you can hardly see the ground.
Green on green on green,
and kissing with your eyes closed.
One emerald eye and the other gold.
Smuggling hyacinth into my spine.
We're going soft in the elbows
for having all the space in the world.
Your gentle palms,
your bruised knuckles,
kissing me halfway out the window.
In the low light.
With the wind chimes.
You,
sliding your ****** hands into my overcoat,
hurrying your mouth into mine.