My chenille duvet covers me
Consumes me
It has swallowed me up again and let me escape
To a world where the bills don’t exist
My homework is finished
The dishes don’t need to be done
The cats are fed and fast asleep
My son obeys to go to school and listen to his teachers

My chenille duvet hides my reality
The reality that
The bills still aren’t paid
The dishes are still there
The homework keeps piling up
The cats are at the foot of my bed, begging to be fed...again
My son has yet again skipped school and tried to come home, not knowing that i am under my duvet

My chenille duvet allows me to feel no pain
It allows me to forget
Even if for a little while
Under my chenille duvet, the world is silent
My feet are warm
My mind stops racing
My heart stops beating as if ravaged through my chest
I can breathe

Every day gets a little bit harder to leave my duvet
My old ragged gray soft duvet
I long for you during the day

On the days when i am in class and don’t have my homework to hand in, because i am so tired
On the days i get a call from my sons school asking where he is, when i know i dropped him off
On the days i get home, and the dishes are still there
On the days i get home from a 12 hour day, and realize i forgot to buy cat food again
On the days i come home and cringe going up the stairs as i pray they didn’t turn my electric off again.

My gray soft fuzzy duvet, I miss you
Why can’t you console me all the time?
I don’t want you to leave me
I need you to stay and make it all go away

It’s always been enough to wear the same cardigan for comfort,
This old red chenille one I bought at the wholesale store when I was 15.
It’s funny—it never came with memories, but it has them with me.
I ripped a little hole in the crochet links more than once, bumping into corners and getting it caught on chairs;
I think I’ve always been getting caught on chairs. Snagging my best laid plans on what it means to be a person, wearing a cardigan, but,
It still sits in the back of my closet, in one piece.

I remember wearing it when I needed comfort. When comfort wouldn’t come. When comfort was a love letter delivered to the wrong address. When I read something that wasn’t mine, and became mine nonetheless, in worn out crochet. I should have thrown it out years ago, but it’s mine,
Tattered and torn and sitting in the back of my closet because I’m too afraid the next time I wear it will be the last before it rips completely.

I, on the other hand, have already ripped completely.
Because I could only stay in the closet for 19 years.
I miss that red chenille cardigan. It was there when I was there, in the closet, being me when I shouldn’t have been me,
And it stayed at home when I left for somewhere I thought was better.

I visit my parents. I suppose I still live there, in part, with that red cardigan.
Stuffed into a space that’s small but safe,
The way plants grow withered but tall without sunlight
Or the way I ended up so independent I became lonely.

I define loneliness by how well it wears a red cardigan.
I judge it by how much the snags and small unravelings stick out;
I love it for that. For the sticking out. For the unravelled yarn in place of my tangled emotions,
For the staples that I put in it because I didn’t know how to sew.
My mother could have taught me how to sew, but I exist in a whirlwind of quick fingers and dropped stitches,
And my woman’s place is not the same as hers.

I wish she’d taught me how to make flapjacks, how to repair cardigans, how to love a man;
I wish she hadn’t taught me that my father loved me.
I wish my father had seen an old cardigan and thought of repairs, instead of the old donation box it could be thrown into,
But he was never the type to try and fix things anyway.

I’ll fix his mistakes. I will keep that cardigan, that old thing,
And I will not repair the imperfections that have given it character.
What am I but a red chenille cardigan? Held onto but never worn?
What am I if not something to be contained at the broken seams in hopes that I can preserve myself longer?

So, I am preserved. A fossil. An old relic of Pompeii, frozen in ash, wearing a cardigan that I don’t really fit into anymore,
A wash of red amongst the black and grey wreckage;
Oh, how I have a home in the wreckage. How I am a cardigan atop the ashes.
It doesn’t flutter. There’s no wind to carry it.

In another life, I’d be the wind. But we’ve already established the story, haven’t we? I’m the cardigan.
I’m nothing but thread that’s woven itself into something of minor importance at best.
So, here I am. Minor importance. Worn cardigan. Here I am, wearing it all. Can you see it yet?
It’s riddled with holes, but still in one piece.

Un jour, causant entre eux, différents animaux
Louaient beaucoup le ver à soie.
Quel talent, disaient-ils, cet insecte déploie
En composant ces fils si doux, si fins, si beaux,
Qui de l'homme font la richesse !
Tous vantaient son travail, exaltaient son adresse.
Une chenille seule y trouvait des défauts,
Aux animaux surpris en faisait la critique,
Disait des mais, et puis des si.
Un renard s'écria : messieurs, cela s'explique ;
C'est que madame file aussi.

I remember the slamming screen doors,
the rattle of the stained glass monster,
and the drafty shadowed nights beneath chenille bedspreads.
 
I remember the sun soaked cloak room with its reek of wet woolen mittens,
the un-impeded flight down stairs in tomato basket bobsleds,
and the bouncing at the bottom in a frenzy of strawberry carpet burns.

I remember church bingo basements smoky on Friday nights,
Saturday morning sounds from her kitchen,
and a mile of sulfur dusted sidewalk in between.
 
I remember the damp musty smell of the low lit basement,
the passing of Black Label beer through semi-circle windows,
and the nauseating hangover from Mogen David wine kept in the cellar.
 
I remember hearing how they kicked in the door while she slept and beat her
and took her things, her rings, the gifts from my grandfather,
and how she stubbornly refused to leave the home my mother was born in.

A half century book ended on one end by the great depression,
which she survived,
on the other end the kicked in door
which she did not.
 
I remember my mother’s wavering voice when she told me she was dead,
how Uncle Ed found her sitting in her chair, rosary beads wrapped
around arthritic hands.
 
I remember hot on the left and cold on the right,
the smell of her sweat,
the breeze off the lake,
the creak of the old steam radiator,
and the way she slept in her chair with her mouth wide-open.
 
The way Uncle Ed found her.

I love that very first glance of her

    The sudden ordeal of despair

That follows the white-hot radiance

    Of her slender smile and sun-washed hair


And of her form, I love the slip

    Of her exquisite thigh and waist

Her creamy breast 'neath wrought chenille

    God's masterwork of grace


And these things last I love the most

    Above her every other charm

The gentle laughter of her heart

    And her weight upon my arm

Fable IV, Livre IV.

À mes enfants.


Du printemps la fille vermeille,
La rose ne vit qu'un moment,
Dont le papillon et l'abeille
Profitent bien différemment.
Gaspillant, comme un fou, les biens qu'on lui prodigue
Tandis que l'insecte léger,
Chenille un jour avant, funeste au potager,
En stériles baisers sur la fleur se fatigue,
L'abeille y puise l'or qu'attendent ses rayons,
L'or qui doit la nourrir dans sa maison bien close,
Longtemps après le jour fatal aux papillons,
Où l'on voit se faner la rose.

Au travail, mes enfants, accordez une part
Dans les jours de votre jeunesse :
Tout donner au plaisir n'est pas de la sagesse ;
Tel qui pense autrement, même avant la vieillesse,
S'en repentira, mais trop ****.

I’ve got five minutes
Then I must leave my verdant patch
On the skirt of a wind-rustled lake
hidden behind Logan's Roadhouse

Five minutes
to mentally finger with the fetal position
In which I awoke this morning,
there as the sun drew long shadows,

I, a diminutive daub of nautilus,
On a California King,
rippled plane of sand,
Sporadic shivers, beneath a chenille blanket

I, the town crier of dawn as
My own dreams ran screaming through the silence
Pointing a finger at
my sanctuary… “Here is your pearl thief!”

Men in hats, briefcases, heel-toe black clicky and shiny shoes
on leashes lugged,
Yanked by noisy hounds passing by
stop, sniff, snarl-toothed *******…

then one caught my scent,
“Five minutes more sleep,” I implored
"Find another dreaming fleshy mess of bones!"
And leave me to my pearl.

But it’s a universe that simply will not wait
And suffer fools for sleepers,
not a moment more
Yet for my many sleepless minutes after,

Dusk till dawn, and still beyond,
it’s always,
                  five
         minutes
more

I pour the wine, while you raise your cup
until our bodies have had enough,
that our spirit’s twist, wrung out dry,
sexed and sated; shyly truth seeps outside
of careless vessels, free once more -
unable to collide, despite this ardor.

Our thoughts clashed clandestine,
while our demeanors docile.
Your scowl, the bone beneath a smile
our rose skin kisses, turning hostile.
The quaff of a tongue, the taunting touch.
Skin chenille, beneath blankets blush.

Suddenly sensitive to the sounds of dawn,
a trash truck groans, someone mows a lawn.
Last nights dream bent around a now that’s gone.
Time has stopped, but it still goes on and on.
I’m up, you’re naked;
Every morning maunders, over-medicated.

Every house a story, every window, perspective
my window is dark, theirs, a beverage,
to fill a voyeurs empty cup with scornful slake,
set to brew when strangers wake;
having gone to bed not knowing each other,
in the morning, woken as broken lovers.

people tend to come then fly away here, and we think we know them.
in memory of Busbar Dancer i had to look up James l. Dickey and he is all he said.

Falling Related Poem Content Details
BY JAMES L. DICKEY
A 29-year-old stewardess fell ... to her
death tonight when she was swept
through an emergency door that sud-
denly sprang open ... The body ...
was found ... three hours after the
accident.                                              
                              —New York Times
The states when they black out and lie there rolling    when they turn
To something transcontinental    move by    drawing moonlight out of the great
One-sided stone hung off the starboard wingtip    some sleeper next to
An engine is groaning for coffee    and there is faintly coming in
Somewhere the vast beast-whistle of space. In the galley with its racks
Of trays    she rummages for a blanket    and moves in her slim tailored
Uniform to pin it over the cry at the top of the door. As though she blew

The door down with a silent blast from her lungs    frozen    she is black
Out finding herself    with the plane nowhere and her body taken by the throat
The undying cry of the void    falling    living    beginning to be something
That no one has ever been and lived through    screaming without enough air
Still neat    lipsticked    stockinged    girdled by regulation    her hat
Still on    her arms and legs in no world    and yet spaced also strangely
With utter placid rightness on thin air    taking her time    she holds it
In many places    and now, still thousands of feet from her death she seems
To slow    she develops interest    she turns in her maneuverable body

To watch it. She is hung high up in the overwhelming middle of things in her
Self    in low body-whistling wrapped intensely    in all her dark dance-weight
Coming down from a marvellous leap    with the delaying, dumfounding ease
Of a dream of being drawn    like endless moonlight to the harvest soil
Of a central state of one’s country    with a great gradual warmth coming
Over her    floating    finding more and more breath in what she has been using
For breath    as the levels become more human    seeing clouds placed honestly
Below her left and right    riding slowly toward them    she clasps it all
To her and can hang her hands and feet in it in peculiar ways    and
Her eyes opened wide by wind, can open her mouth as wide    wider and ****
All the heat from the cornfields    can go down on her back with a feeling
Of stupendous pillows stacked under her    and can turn    turn as to someone
In bed    smile, understood in darkness    can go away    slant    slide
Off tumbling    into the emblem of a bird with its wings half-spread
Or whirl madly on herself    in endless gymnastics in the growing warmth
Of wheatfields rising toward the harvest moon.    There is time to live
In superhuman health    seeing mortal unreachable lights far down seeing
An ultimate highway with one late priceless car probing it    arriving
In a square town    and off her starboard arm the glitter of water catches
The moon by its one shaken side    scaled, roaming silver    My God it is good
And evil    lying in one after another of all the positions for love
Making    dancing    sleeping    and now cloud wisps at her no
Raincoat    no matter    all small towns brokenly brighter from inside
Cloud    she walks over them like rain    bursts out to behold a Greyhound
Bus shooting light through its sides    it is the signal to go straight
Down like a glorious diver    then feet first    her skirt stripped beautifully
Up    her face in fear-scented cloths    her legs deliriously bare    then
Arms out    she slow-rolls over    steadies out    waits for something great
To take control of her    trembles near feathers    planes head-down
The quick movements of bird-necks turning her head    gold eyes the insight-
eyesight of owls blazing into the hencoops    a taste for chicken overwhelming
Her    the long-range vision of hawks enlarging all human lights of cars
Freight trains    looped bridges    enlarging the moon racing slowly
Through all the curves of a river    all the darks of the midwest blazing
From above. A rabbit in a bush turns white    the smothering chickens
Huddle    for over them there is still time for something to live
With the streaming half-idea of a long stoop    a hurtling    a fall
That is controlled    that plummets as it wills    turns gravity
Into a new condition, showing its other side like a moon    shining
New Powers    there is still time to live on a breath made of nothing
But the whole night    time for her to remember to arrange her skirt
Like a diagram of a bat    tightly it guides her    she has this flying-skin
Made of garments    and there are also those sky-divers on tv    sailing
In sunlight    smiling under their goggles    swapping batons back and forth
And He who jumped without a chute and was handed one by a diving
Buddy. She looks for her grinning companion    white teeth    nowhere
She is screaming    singing hymns    her thin human wings spread out
From her neat shoulders    the air beast-crooning to her    warbling
And she can no longer behold the huge partial form of the world    now
She is watching her country lose its evoked master shape    watching it lose
And gain    get back its houses and peoples    watching it bring up
Its local lights    single homes    lamps on barn roofs    if she fell
Into water she might live    like a diver    cleaving    perfect    plunge

Into another    heavy silver    unbreathable    slowing    saving
Element: there is water    there is time to perfect all the fine
Points of diving    feet together    toes pointed    hands shaped right
To insert her into water like a needle    to come out healthily dripping
And be handed a Coca-Cola    there they are    there are the waters
Of life    the moon packed and coiled in a reservoir    so let me begin
To plane across the night air of Kansas    opening my eyes superhumanly
Bright    to the ****** moon    opening the natural wings of my jacket
By Don Loper    moving like a hunting owl toward the glitter of water
One cannot just fall    just tumble screaming all that time    one must use
It    she is now through with all    through all    clouds    damp    hair
Straightened    the last wisp of fog pulled apart on her face like wool revealing
New darks    new progressions of headlights along dirt roads from chaos

And night    a gradual warming    a new-made, inevitable world of one’s own
Country    a great stone of light in its waiting waters    hold    hold out
For water: who knows when what correct young woman must take up her body
And fly    and head for the moon-crazed inner eye of midwest imprisoned
Water    stored up for her for years    the arms of her jacket slipping
Air up her sleeves to go    all over her? What final things can be said
Of one who starts her sheerly in her body in the high middle of night
Air    to track down water like a rabbit where it lies like life itself
Off to the right in Kansas? She goes toward    the blazing-bare lake
Her skirts neat    her hands and face warmed more and more by the air
Rising from pastures of beans    and under her    under chenille bedspreads
The farm girls are feeling the goddess in them struggle and rise brooding
On the scratch-shining posts of the bed    dreaming of female signs
Of the moon    male blood like iron    of what is really said by the moan
Of airliners passing over them at dead of midwest midnight    passing
Over brush fires    burning out in silence on little hills    and will wake
To see the woman they should be    struggling on the rooftree to become
Stars: for her the ground is closer    water is nearer    she passes
It    then banks    turns    her sleeves fluttering differently as she rolls
Out to face the east, where the sun shall come up from wheatfields she must
Do something with water    fly to it    fall in it    drink it    rise
From it    but there is none left upon earth    the clouds have drunk it back
The plants have ****** it down    there are standing toward her only
The common fields of death    she comes back from flying to falling
Returns to a powerful cry    the silent scream with which she blew down
The coupled door of the airliner    nearly    nearly losing hold
Of what she has done    remembers    remembers the shape at the heart
Of cloud    fashionably swirling    remembers she still has time to die
Beyond explanation. Let her now take off her hat in summer air the contour
Of cornfields    and have enough time to kick off her one remaining
Shoe with the toes    of the other foot    to unhook her stockings
With calm fingers, noting how fatally easy it is to undress in midair
Near death    when the body will assume without effort any position
Except the one that will sustain it    enable it to rise    live
Not die    nine farms hover close    widen    eight of them separate, leaving
One in the middle    then the fields of that farm do the same    there is no
Way to back off    from her chosen ground    but she sheds the jacket
With its silver sad impotent wings    sheds the bat’s guiding tailpiece
Of her skirt    the lightning-charged clinging of her blouse    the intimate
Inner flying-garment of her slip in which she rides like the holy ghost
Of a ******    sheds the long windsocks of her stockings    absurd
Brassiere    then feels the girdle required by regulations squirming
Off her: no longer monobuttocked    she feels the girdle flutter    shake
In her hand    and float    upward    her clothes rising off her ascending
Into cloud    and fights away from her head the last sharp dangerous shoe
Like a dumb bird    and now will drop in    soon    now will drop

In like this    the greatest thing that ever came to Kansas    down from all
Heights    all levels of American breath    layered in the lungs from the frail
Chill of space to the loam where extinction slumbers in corn tassels thickly
And breathes like rich farmers counting: will come along them after
Her last superhuman act    the last slow careful passing of her hands
All over her unharmed body    desired by every sleeper in his dream:
Boys finding for the first time their ***** filled with heart’s blood
Widowed farmers whose hands float under light covers to find themselves
Arisen at sunrise    the splendid position of blood unearthly drawn
Toward clouds    all feel something    pass over them as she passes
Her palms over her long legs    her small *******    and deeply between
Her thighs    her hair shot loose from all pins    streaming in the wind
Of her body    let her come openly    trying at the last second to land
On her back    This is it    this
                                                          All those who find her impressed
In the soft loam    gone down    driven well into the image of her body
The furrows for miles flowing in upon her where she lies very deep
In her mortal outline    in the earth as it is in cloud    can tell n

Violins straining
lights playing
on the heroine's face
her eyes misty
with suffering
the handsome hero
caresses her frail hand

suddenly
her hand rests
on the chenille bedspread
her face passive
against an ivory pillow
her eyes close
soaring voices rise
lights dim

quickly
the hero
his lady
the room
lights
colors
music
screen
theater
people
you
me
fade
out

So easily I slide
Into an old chenille robe
Slouching to accept defeat
Feeling each past failure’s probe

My isolation morphs
Into alienation
I slip into a winter
Of my discontent again

Familiar imprint there
Tattooed backside on the couch
A negative reminder
Under dark shrouds of self-doubt

Passively sinking
Wallowing in all things bleak
Difficulties must precede
Enlightenment that I seek

Can’t hardly lift my feet
Both beneath my tree-log legs
I shuffle with some coffee
Time to empty out the dregs

After the longest day
I kick takeout boxes aside
I ricochet off balance still
No fall comes without any pride

Elle passa, je crois qu'elle m'avait souri.
C'était une grisette ou bien une houri.
Je ne sais si l'effet fut moral ou physique,
Mais son pas en marchant faisait une musique.
Quoi ! Ton pavé bruyant et fangeux, ô Paris,
A de ces visions ineffables ! Je pris
Ses yeux fixés sur moi pour deux étoiles bleues.
Fraîche et joyeuse enfant ! Moineaux et hochequeues
Ont moins de gaîté folle et de vivacité.
Elle avait une robe en taffetas d'été,
De petits brodequins couleur de scarabée,
L'air d'une ombre qui passe avant la nuit tombée,
Je ne sais quoi de fier qui permettait l'espoir.

Pendant que je songeais, croyant encor la voir
Même après qu'elle était enfuie et disparue,
Et que debout, pensif au milieu de la rue,
Contemplant, ébloui, cet être gracieux,
J'avais l'œil dans l'espace et l'âme dans les cieux,
Une vieille, moitié chatte et moitié harpie,
Au menton hérissé d'une barbe en charpie,
Vêtue affreusement d'un sinistre haillon,
Effroyable, et parlant comme avec un bâillon,
Me dit tout bas : - Monsieur veut-il de cette fille ?

Ô pauvre colibri que vend une chenille !

Je ne te cache pas que j'aime aussi les bêtes ;
Cela t'amuse et moi cela m'instruit ; je sens
Que ce n'est pas pour rien qu'en ces farouches têtes
Dieu met le clair-obscur des grands bois frémissants.

Je suis le curieux qui, né pour croire et plaindre,
Sonde, en voyant l'aspic sous des roses rampant,
Les sombres lois qui font que la femme doit craindre
Le démon, quand la fleur n'a pas peur du serpent.

Pendant que nous donnons des ordres à la terre,
Rois copiant le singe et par lui copiés,
Doutant s'il est notre œuvre ou s'il est notre père,
Tout en bas, dans l'horreur fatale, sous nos pieds,

On ne sait quel noir monde étonné nous regarde
Et songe, et sous un joug, trop souvent odieux,
Nous courbons l'humble monstre et la brute hagarde
Qui, nous voyant démons, nous prennent pour des dieux.

Oh ! que d'étranges lois ! quel tragique mélange !
Voit-on le dernier fait, sait-on le dernier mot,
Quel spectre peut sortir de Vénus, et quel ange
Peut naître dans le ventre affreux de Béhémoth ?

Transfiguration ! mystère ! gouffre et cime !
L'âme rejettera le corps, sombre haillon ;
La créature abjecte un jour sera sublime,
L'être qu'on hait chenille on l'aime papillon.

T'oseroit bien quelque poète
Nyer des vers, douce alouette ?
Quant à moy je ne l'oserois,
Je veux celebrer ton ramage
Sur tous oyseaus qui sont en cage,
Et sur tous ceus qui sont es bois.

Qu'il te fait bon ouyr ! à l'heure
Que le bouvier les champs labeure
Quand la terre le printems sent,
Qui plus de ta chanson est gaye,
Que couroussée de la playe
Du soc, qui l'estomac lui fend.

Si tost que tu es arrosée
Au point du jour, de la rosée,
Tu fais en l'air mile discours
En l'air des ailes tu fretilles,
Et pendue au ciel, tu babilles,
Et contes aus vens tes amours.

Puis du ciel tu te laisses fondre
Dans un sillon vert, soit pour pondre,
Soit pour esclorre, ou pour couver,
Soit pour aporter la bechée
A tes petis, ou d'une Achée
Ou d'une chenille, ou d'un ver.

Lors moi couché dessus l'herbette
D'une part j'oy ta chansonnette ;
De l'autre, sus du poliot,
A l'abry de quelque fougere
J'ecoute la jeune bergere
Qui degoise son lerelot.

Puis je di, tu es bien-heureuse,
Gentille Alouette amoureuse,
Qui n'as peur ny soucy de riens,
Qui jamais au coeur n'as sentie
Les dedains d'une fiere amie,
Ny le soin d'amasser des biens.

Ou si quelque souci te touche,
C'est, lors que le Soleil se couche,
De dormir, et de reveiller
De tes chansons avec l'Aurore
Et bergers et passans encore,
Pour les envoyer travailler.

Mais je vis toujours en tristesse,
Pour les fiertez d'une maistresse
Qui paye ma foi de travaus,
Et d'une plesante mensonge,
Qui jour et nuit tous-jours alonge
La longue trame de mes maus.

How much to live
for you in different ways
becoming just me.

My grief mixes with
the clouds to rain on the
wings of songs.

Chenille. Like lifting
your memories
with beautiful metaphors.

Nonverbally the words
fall on the roses,
without any cause.

I bring back the moons.

Pouvons-nous étouffer le vieux, le long Remords,
Qui vit, s'agite et se tortille,
Et se nourrit de nous comme le ver des morts,
Comme du chêne la chenille ?
Pouvons-nous étouffer l'implacable Remords ?

Dans quel philtre, dans quel vin, dans quelle tisane,
Noierons-nous ce vieil ennemi,
Destructeur et gourmand comme la courtisane,
Patient comme la fourmi ?
Dans quel philtre ? - dans quel vin ? - dans quelle tisane ?

Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais,
A cet esprit comblé d'angoisse
Et pareil au mourant qu'écrasent les blessés,
Que le sabot du cheval froisse,
Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais,

A cet agonisant que le loup déjà flaire
Et que surveille le corbeau,
A ce soldat brisé ! s'il faut qu'il désespère
D'avoir sa croix et son tombeau ;
Ce pauvre agonisant que déjà le loup flaire !

Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ?
Peut-on déchirer des ténèbres
Plus denses que la poix, sans matin et sans soir,
Sans astres, sans éclairs funèbres ?
Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ?

L'Espérance qui brille aux carreaux de l'Auberge
Est soufflée, est morte à jamais !
Sans lune et sans rayons, trouver où l'on héberge
Les martyrs d'un chemin mauvais !
Le Diable a tout éteint aux carreaux de l'Auberge !

Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ?
Dis, connais-tu l'irrémissible ?
Connais-tu le Remords, aux traits empoisonnés,
A qui notre coeur sert de cible ?
Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ?

L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite
Notre âme, piteux monument,
Et souvent il attaque, ainsi que le termite,
Par la base le bâtiment.
L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite !

- J'ai vu parfois, au fond d'un théâtre banal
Qu'enflammait l'orchestre sonore,
Une fée allumer dans un ciel infernal
Une miraculeuse aurore ;
J'ai vu parfois au fond d'un théâtre banal

Un être, qui n'était que lumière, or et gaze,
Terrasser l'énorme Satan ;
Mais mon coeur, que jamais ne visite l'extase,
Est un théâtre où l'on attend
Toujours, toujours en vain, l'Être aux ailes de gaze !

Revisited
on top of this mountain  
ice translates the morning  
into textured hues

holding space
a tempered mood
the gaps within the crevices
await their next patient
cover the sleet of past years
after Innocent expansion founded

prepared and ready to hear time to use its wiser words
readying to speak out on behalf of itself

the clocks of experience taught its distance in a cold hiding place
calling out beyond the peaks of this mountain: the shadow of its
fearful chasm persisted:

“You must find another way” shouted the early tinges of this sun’s glare
like a vein’s intentional gaze
Purple and green light
you're somewhere out there this mountain felt it
for all the sunsets God has ever named  proclaimed it (in me)
heaven heeded the specific tone
the only thing needed: was to listen to it's causality
and so it acted upon the thought
like a silent note swirling around
unlettered
unposted
franked for some time in the future
passing as bicycles
fading out
cross crossing the steep of this mountain’s hill

It got out of a maze that swiveled and turned at its intersection
no stick needed
shift and change positions
until it fits in
just
thoughts imagine colors
the picture stays in mind
I didn't act until I felt time holding my waist
the arteries opened up
wrapping me around in Chenille
moves its wand
whispers in this mountain’s ear

habits focus on the final flower
selected once
revisited in the dreams of the observed human looking down

persistence enwraps itself around the crevices
fills them graciously with consideration
the taste of specificity
In its human rapport
had been selected

This mountain’s end
does not replace the past
it’s fullness predicts the future
To be whole

(The most beautiful opportunity to live and to reign your love in)

Wash yourself of all the dirt and pain he caused you
That runs through your veins and out your toes
Long glances into a mirror and remembering who you are
The trials and errors of love lasted too long
Your head is grey, with strands of golden promises in between
Hands folded and weathered and your legs no longer strong
For when he became a part of you, he took all the beauty
Now my beauty lies only in my memories, my past is but a dream
Covered in soft, chenille blankets that keep me warm at night
No longer can I wait for love, my time has come and gone
Where do I go? What do I do? It can not be the end
I want real love to find me so that I can begin to live again