of la mer
rise smoothly over the glassed end,
drawing blue velvets of music,
& i can only hope no valkyries
come rushing in from the west,
because the blooms are so young
& the tide so high.—
the sky beyond is a staggering heap
of skin & air.
silencing eye. question mark.
reek of burnt thistle.
if not for the music,
the morning sun of promise
would be reduced to an empty whole
through whose heart
the arrows would fall
& because if you asked,
i could spend a couple thousand years
trying to say how it feels,
these velvets of desire
like cold moonlight,
to victories of lips upon lips
we keep so close.-
p.s. : RE : milk.
(have you ever looked into a bowl
you can see queen city birds
in flow under an october sky,
ducking & diving through buildings like a threaded needle,
behaving like true electricity.
let the milk stand a week
& you’ll be able to divine the complete history of weather.
this doesn’t mean you’ll be able to stand on water,
but it means you’ll be able to let it fly across your tongue
& create a hurricane of teeth.
& if that weather made a face.
if it was hers,
do you think you could find the coast
in time to pull the salt from below her eyes,
the eyes you spoiled like milk?—
have you ever stared into a bowl of milk
& began to see your face
for what it is?)-