"Bale of hay, almost made for a woman bent over."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
Locket
At first, I wouldn’t believe: _______________________________________________________________ Prone, November
Just your slow, pink movements near the doorway. _______________________________________________________________ The Traps
Missy gets tied to the rafters.
_______________________________________________________________
calla lilies dipped in pink, but only the tips,
like a small girls toes, like the bell-curve of crave.
How the clinking of teeth
tastes slightly of antique silver, of April in Denver.
Collared doves I watched in their cage.
How their color is buff, a low lying fog,
the uncertain shore of childhood. But the black
at their necks is so fixed.
Is the adult kohl at my eyes,
is your hair, mink sky around us,
wild & fixed.
If there were fields, they'd long ago rolled back in agate bliss.
Until you were indelible, a dahlia.
Bale of hay, almost made for a woman bent over.
Her pale sweet hedging (which,
in certain landscapes,
is an early form of love. )
I want you slow: birds hover near my waist.
Not sleep in the distance but the mimeograph
of sleep.
Above all else, the trembling resembles a forest.
She likes the lack of choices,
I’m afraid: one, solitary
hummingbird
per zipcode…
She dreams
she breastfeeds blood,
she dreams of faith.
What did you know about fire?
& where did the blind one put it?