A dreamer,
Chasing white rabbits,
Danced with her flourescence,
Carrying smiles meant for tomorrow,
When joy had fallen far from sight.
She danced to the music of hummingbirds,
For when the rythm changes and tempo slowed,
She danced to the voice of stormy nights,
As if the stars had sent their spark
In front of half- hiden laughing moon.
Autumn dripping leaves of weary gold,
The tune of hush and shush and wush,
She danced with her one feet in the air,
And with her black shiny curls,
It seemed as if she was ready to rise.  
I still remember the way she used to dance.

torn flower pettles
engulf the vastness,
devoid of time and reality,
of the growing distance.

a floral bath
doused in flourescence.
the white lilies
that signify a grave.

your charred corpse,
a bloated bag,
floats in a putrefying stasis.
only half a daisy-boy beauty.

the water fizzles
into acid. the hyacinths wither
into amorphous globules.
gap tooth dissolves.

there's not a pain like
an opened peony
ephemerally twisting a knife
of how beautiful and limited your time is
in its flourescence.

the pain of
preparing yourself
for next May, same time,
as the flower, paper-petaled,
a delicacy,
will be rooted here after you're gone.

this legacy you won't leave,
with its ancestors of the ants crawling on its buds,
to which you resign to yourself,
to the peony, the ants,
'that is fine by me.'

you have taught me love
in the flourescence of adulthood,
but that can be dark and you can be dark,  
all of it in and out of body.

you teach me how to long for a season
and hate it at the same time.

teach me a forgiveness whose holiness is
captured by memories of you kneeling and my not,
didn't care if I couldn't, let the tallness of the everything
wrap around me, protecting me,
and you're on the floor, kneeling.

eucharist in your hand and you're crying.

you have taught me how to release.
I am hanging onto sunken words, a promise,
that maybe not today or tonight or on Christmas
whenever
you're in town and I'm in town
or I'm astral even,
that the story is real.

many stories had ended long ago
and ours will eventually,
untold if ever
and if told,
will evaporate with the two of us,
separated by panes of glass.