I wish, between the spinal synapses, I could insert a key, the teeth slotting into place like a bird, landing upon a telegraph wire.


And waiting, it would turn, it’s wings would spread, and exhaustion, slowly, would spring.


Outwards, amber exhaustion, melliferous, it malingers, before gushing from my pores, a Vesuvian embrace.


And my bones, the tension that wrought them, unravel like a tangerine skin, t’wards redamant relief.


Wings spread outward, the plane of days,


Just before the,

key, turns








As merry as the day was long, I wandered, winderly,

Demure amber, skyward, encased the thread of day,

And I read the benches of the barely dead.


Planted I turned to the lake,

As, aimlessly, the moorhens mawked and paddled,


The slithers of the day,

Circling and encircling, nothing, a moment.


And showed a commitment to that aegis,

that I could not,

As I read the benches of the barely dead,

and thought.

A Blemish

But how was I to know,

that love could be so?

That the curlicue of our spooning frames,

framed the fate of future days

In which propinquity, silently, awakened us,

to a bond beyond safety.


We, shrouded, in a Catherine wheel,

of opalescent haze,

Where I’d been happy,

Just to have you near,

Holding my ears gaze,

in a saccharine scented dream.


And the untraceable innocence,

Of love yet known,

Bought joy yet to become a blemish.