Meet me at the edge of the mountain
With your arms around me, breath heavy
Take me away, towards the persimmon sun.

Rest your head upon my shoulder
And share with me authors you read fondly.
Send me to a land, where gleaming parties and revolutions are canon.

Sit and read to me of Grendel
And the darklings of Keats, his solemn pastorials
Protect me from all, Sir Beowulf, my knight with bravery ineffable.

Traverse with me the woods
Away from the cabin, and to the pond.
Tell me of the leaves you see-- muddy, mucky, made webbed.  

Sing to the moon the poetry of your swoon
The light that cares and dusts away your desk
O Gabriel, my knight and day, scare away his hooves.

Lead me to a life far from Auerbach
Yet so near, through your words on our mountain walk.

In the sinful garden I was aroused,
My toenails dug into Earth as the yew to the moon
Crouched with legs lambent of the blue glow.

I clawed and sank into the abyss the edifice allowed.
Violet sky and clouds abloom
Crawling towards its moleskin bound and sewn

Ginger stained and fig darkened
Our assemblage of sentiments sank
Into the fire-molten pit below.

Further into the soil beneath, pressed with bark and--
Ages of space that left some pages blank.
Your sharp mountains of ink through soil began to show.

Alas, I beheld in its fullness, a body which beat I stopped to harken
A tremor my arms, hands, and fingers began to make
With a gust of wind, brush of limbs, the dust away was blown.

Cuticles gushing red as I clung to our words, but away with a night lark.
After that short mirage, off my knees and into the sky I flew
My heart bare and untamed, as the soul from the skin under the moon.

When I was 17
I wanted to be just like it.  
A girl of the heedless, of a twisted wind
And lashing overstory.
Bold in choice eyes burning gallant
When I stood not alone
On screaming nights
In crowded habitation

Writing my future’s
Threatening tumult
Apart from regularity
Prerogative, accompanying grail
Withered leaves of change.
Left with nothing more,
But to turn them over.

You didn’t meant it.
Your gifts, consolations, plush saccharine petals.
You used their precious implications to hide
Your disposition.
It was my birthday.
I sank into my seat,
Driving towards the expectancy of consistence,
Home, away from
Your wonted constitution.

Our affections are resinous
By the grindstone, made
Confections.

Our patience tasteful impressions
By words, sweet turpeny made
Ever-growing since.

Our laughter like camphor
Sowed by thyme, made
Love, after.

Your love is unwashed
Grown and ground, made to steep
Cherry beans, grown in their burgundy glove.