markbousfield

IN A COMA OF LILIES

In a coma of yellow lilies and cold water I lay,
my back on a blanket of silt,

every field where I died
full of root, barley, hyacinthe,
surrounded by jade's of hours seeped away in sleep.

Scents of lemongrass, scorns of jasmine and cumin,
sweet mewing cat calls to a Wednesday
slenderly black and evocative.

Prickles of the sun stray over the corona of our reflection,
around the heat nearest your cheek,
camera in hand we walk,
I walk,
film,
capture,
crowded parks and hearts,
the smell of blueberry pancakes and sex,
the nakedness of truth
and the song of flesh no longer divided.

The rolling gallop of horses,
in the dirt they overturn at full tilt,
their motion spurned in the tilling of soil.