there are worlds underneath words
swathed inward, swirling from
rondure of moon.
of all that i have loved,
you are the only one living
here within the lining of my skin,
or thinning dermis of turpentined walls,
same as the ponds have their
curved silences, i have nothing -
a river bled of its source, living in wet verses.
what the turning of days might
bequeath you, as cunning as the mayday
of evening with its susurrus, is what
brims over diminutively, a glint of star.
i believe in the empire your love
spurned from all that is ruined,
drained of their excess. how i have loved
to trail you, across the crisscrossed roads
and receive such fullness no purer than mine:
all your sweetness that is for me,
the implacable honeysuckle and the dew
of mild beginning, i believe them
all
breaking loose around me, perduring
still, lorn and born only of visions
all yellow and filling up trees so as the assault
of light spreading maps through the sky,
looking for its home.
