the smoke rising off the snow
like the wet breath of hot jewels.
is draped over the dead.
i have no joy where the happy is done.
and all the pilots blotch the tarmac
having crashed into
chrysanthemums.

i am Yorktown and Springhill.
a swathe of feral and ironworks
on a bleached stone
in a pit.
i collude with the sun
and cavort with the moon's sisters.
swelling my coffers with blood
spilled on a Living
Thing.

and i forget.

living in the smoke of my desire
always moving against a shadow
that has no name, but your mask.
i come about. as faithful on the sea
as a dead whale... i choose to linger
in the hemisphere
of your too important
atrophy.

and regret sail.

The same day comes
like a yesteryear of travelling
in the dessicated skin of a rainbow
sutured to the hem of a skirt.
The day that comes unredacted.
the full sun on your heel.
and all hells. marching
into worse, by Feel.

blind to the terrain.

but walking
still.

II

i have no problem with the truth.
it merely comes to me, like a shadow
as I feign sleep... as i click heels
in the pantry of our dense cakes
and jellied veal.
where I turn the soil
the soiling kills a Sun -
on your face.
i impeach the beginning
with a whirr of outlasting
naivete.
crippled by the bargain
of attachment
and Dismay.

III

as we may.

as i descend into the mad sun
i visit blue brothels and calm green seas.
i rip cables out of butterflies
to suture my wounds.
i change my course,
to my Fate.

As Must 
we all.

II

i've learned a great many things
about dead ends... they always start
where you live.
they bend the moon to your aspect.
the red death to a - 
false hope.
with a real
hope.

and as much despair.

III

gather where ye may, the very laurels 
of your heart. But, be neither spendthrift with your anguish -
nor copiously disarmed.
have your adventures where a god - 
can pardon you...
For having less faith
than an abandoned
thought of You.

go only to return.
and burn your memoirs in the attic
to **** the dream.

leave no fingerprints in the vacuum.
wash your hands of the spiral -
and feel what
It Means.

the whiskey scorns the back of my throat
as I return to staring into Space. It's almost empty.
save for the holes.
I park my dark, near the tiny star -
on your cheek.
I go where the rain has feelings
and a drought is a flood
of affection...
scorching the tongue
in my besotted
skull.

a cavalry of orchids
forged upon the moon -
but anointed near the flames
at hand. the ready hells
at our door.
bathing in the ashes
of our dreams...
as our celestial trajectory
descends -
into the palm
of destiny.

or so I imagine.
eventually.

but the holes cannot be contained.
nor the spark that divides them.
we suffer for no reason.
the universe is feeling everything.
It is not Thinking,
It is knowing the terrain
of the unknown Grace.
and what the holes may consume
soon returns...
and what happened
was a life.

unconfirmed.

i can see from here, the lush petunias
of your mustard seed pavilion.
i may walk to your elaborate fountains
and make my wish.... but never
feel them.

to look through you
i had to see Me
for myself.
i had to look
for the first time
at my heart.

and nowhere else.