Acorn

Be close, my dear-- lest our love

becomes ruined by metropolis sufferings.

oh! Lilies, and

violets of two-toned fields!

and one in seventeen-

and desiring a twin, but needing variance

from a single multitude, held close, and O! As the one in the similar city!

Noticing, what correlations between unrelated objects hold,

like a pair of doves, and the leaves beneath our boots;

or even! Wildflowers falling from our hair!

Inside a yellowed albatross

in a jungled forest town

and a professor in a dulled shirt

and a treehouse overlooking the rustling bay

even--- to be dissipated

tomorrow, to be sad

and grey arched troubles

of harmonic gauges and

the freckled eyes

of an entire army

marching towards the sun

and eyes beaming into carbon particles

begging to be seen

by their stargazing lovers.

and bells tied to our ankles,

shivers make them

clash wildly into each other

demanding birds

to arise from their enwintred slumber,

under crumbled summer

weeds and frozen

bulbs of forever-flowers,

portals for our eyelids

and

tea leaves

held in our apron we saw-

a sparkling of light pink roses

from our knitted purses,

O, to be alive and wildly tumultuous!

telma

i am always shaky in the dusty mornings

when lighter-than feather thoughts

awake from their shuttering cocoons

and the sun sits next to me, in my fisted but delicate hands

whispering violet'd but opaque desires

through a coffee filter,

"i have become slower,

i have become at peace,

i have become a lover, but yet,"

and red bursts from beside my head!

o, and granules of sparkling water

are present still, in my almost-sister's weathered boots

like suns shining, we are!

her treasure walked through the painter door

hands morphed inside constellations,

draped above the slow breath she leaves,

a mobile in the night, and silenced waterbodies, held by plants.

had we held her as a child, (do not falter now)

maybe a painter would have emerged from her cracking bones

maybe a wonder would have appeared on the corner of madison

well, try to change my nested qualities

you will not, you will not, you will not

a drawing, lost in a sea of leaves

and even spherical candles cannot whisk you into a life undeserved

We are walking to a meadow

a little girl slept there

while her thoughts ran free

and wildflowers stained the seam of her dress

Shivering

under blankets

in the morning, and at dawn

black, just black, I noticed

in the core of

some differing notation

"I can be near, I can," but yet!

A movement under ninth,

a drab harmonium,

or a dreaming among wolves?

Through sketched maps of a future colony

I saw

hands enwintered,

or ruins raised up,

or braids disassembled

all while drinking tea in the meadow,

which we knew

would grow and become a garden.

"Yes, and even serrated misanthropes sleep in the dungeons of their darknesses,"

daybook

in a stuffed catalogue

we are three, astropomorphic

and greatest limericks bursting

through raspberry groves, where

i had (so violently, inside) left

the painted door cracked open

an invitation, into

a paralleled kingdom, but lips

were shivering under riverbeds

of drowned fragments

that had fallen from our lips!

and Yet!

Restored gradients, from metallic streams

but where had the dissimilar misogyny come from?

"Bring me back to castles with wildflowers, sun blazing through the fields"
in a gust of wind,

seventeen stories were told with a blustering talent

where whispers (purpled words from the land of vipers_

told rumors of the most specific things coming alive,

for instance, the tiniest of insects who were dragging

mammals from their graves,

or the formation of opaque galaxies, fed to hexagon-bellies

that we, as sorcerers could, perhaps,

hold between our blistered hands, where desired diamonds multiplied,

and a furthest beat in a stormheart of thunder bellowed

from the depths of a martian's thought

where little bumblebees

fluttered their archipelagoed glittering wings

into a quicksand of trainparts,

and blots of skin cancer

moved through hedges of boulders

to get to parisian hearts

in darknesses bound for precision-markings

on their foreheads

but yet, a still, faint familiarity!

scarred pools of blackened cauldronwaters,

some brisk memorial for a single fish-noire,

one dimly scattered Asian country, from forward flashing dreaming

to a waterfall edging on the horizoned babies' connection to the mystified whirlwinds of slumbered trigons

and furthest twisting of ropes into tireswings for sons of seven arks.

besides,

all is completely, unashamedly destined to arise as quixotic tracheas map out

air follicles and demeaning scratches on the ships lodged into clouds,

to stagger and become a solitary entity!

inside an editorial

and trapped

between unfamiliar lavender sheets

a lion, perched on a pew between us

leaned on her,

a video, playing above our heads,

showed us tiny whispered orgasms

disconnected from us, but two in the same

and before, a church, to fast forward so lights can flicker

like stars eventually bound for darkness

just as a thousand bells rung

outside,

how, how would i still not be thrust

a gift of love?

3452.35/4771.69

felt an urgency
beneath our skin to reconnect
and feathers
blew in the wind, to upstate georgia
where mountains were thrust from their foundations
into a sea beneath the largest glacier on Venus
"forget a humbled existence, and be cast into seascapes,"
she said, but
everyone,
including i,
was unaware of your arrival and i began to feel
that same urgency to check letters off,
pound on buttons,
release it into airwaves,
just to see your face after months!
just to spin in circles beside the Hudson!
just to, O God,
be the most glad being, and bones shivering from the love felt
from miles between, O God!
a celebratory unison
to a shared ocean, to an hour away, to, O! a gladness felt: in artistry.

we shiver under quiet depths

with hues of azure and iron

some yellowed silence
and an infant, a demeaning death

where we had fallen into a

wandering earth, or hell

so far gone,

in a scarred atmosphere/unknown

but yet, a protection.

some gliding movement

of towers,

two by two,

and softest fabric, spun between our fingers,

as the cradle of a child

loses its balance and vanishes,

so we are left to flicker into non-existence,

or-- total existence,

whichever is more fitting

to our deep, deep selfishly inclusive souls.

forgive us of our innate curiosities,

of a joyous monument,

of a forest, annotated-

and even as the harp's strings

melt into glass,

our hands play on;

a tortuous morning

to a greatest age.

some strange crimson marketplace,
a cosmic ballet-
yesterday's silencing heartbeat
morphed into a graveyard of the apex of steeples
where a single pulsing
under a crevice of fabricated directions, written on the tips of fingers
promised an eternal deliverance to the rings
that surround our quiet sphere
of still moving awakening,
a life,
beckoning to be found
lodged under
a darkness in ancient libraries,
an unresponsive brother,
or the glittering snowtides of the atlantic in february;
now be not afraid, little bee,
for a restoration seeps between your pores
and a lullaby
sung in several languages, simultaneously
will soothe a disquieted mind, as the giant
above our heads
steals momentous blocks of stone from our atmosphere
he sits, but holds tight
to sliced objects which could have possibly
created our interior to be
a deafening demonic force, to which it was originally hoped to be
before a fire,
before a fire fell.