Friday, 31 March 2017


Purple velvet of her golden fingers
Brushing, brushing
Over shrub-forested pearls,
Round and round
Into recurring dreams
Bright as mirrored stars,
Earthen-rusted satin berries
In dark woodland night.

Eyes abstracted,
A diamond necklace lost
In a midnight stream,
Perfumed mist,

O come to me, my beloved,
Her every sinew sings
In rarest silence,
Like the spectacle of the aurora borealis
Transferring energy
Into light.

O come to me, my darling,
Her complex heart entreats
From the cool of the bracken.

There, where the stars return,
She holds court.
A stolen, aching, momentary refraction,
Like a sunflower,
An invisible orchid.

She is not far
From the raucous notions
Of infinity and love,
The nebulae of appearance and nuance,
Intrigue and desire,
Where the sweetness of cherry tomatoes on the vine
Borders delirium,
Seed swallowed
Into oblivious history.

The long stroll through the garden
Is a dream,
All the bright flowers,
Pink, blue, tangerine,
These are her inspiration and affirmation.
The woodland is her closest confidante,
Her ally in times of clarity.

Her hand kneads her soft mons pubis,
Pressing as if all the cosmos could be contained
In a pamphlet
Or a poem
Or deep night only.

She wants the gold and the copper,
The coal and the zinc,
All of it,
Between her teeth,
Running through her hair.

Her fingertips potentate
Fire life into obliqueness,
Drawing driftwood back into the sea.

Her eyes open
To mysterious reality,
And she closes them again
In a moment of mercy.

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