Would you mind terribly if I painted our bedroom
the color of the sky the day we first met?

I still see it clearly in my head –
Crayola calls it “cesious” or “wild blue yonder”
but there is something missing from that, something more sad
given grey of an infirmary above for angels.

I want to savor  that emotion, remember
that we can be one together and imperfect at the same time:
let us paint the bedroom like a hurricane sky –

I will have insomnia, yet love you in the morning.

“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the  de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.