woyzek

A great, cool parsing of night seals my lips,
And my sight is rustic sown to a light miles off.
My beloved struggles for setting,
beneath a peach pale sheet,
And caul of danced black
Brushed back from her brow,
Is both a tongue towards her regality,
As well as a deftly mastered veil.

My beloved reclines in a rose heart of admissions,
Cream and flush of calf altering,
Worn hem rising,
And binding back,
And rising.

She speaks of the wan embrace of this world,
And also of, the room of men moving,
The honied winding of gutter culled halo,
And also of, the kink of golden speech.

" I've a dying party flyer here,
May best for snowflakes,"
I beg at her.
"Or else I've a repackaged hurt on the Amazon.
Would you might want to press pass the tree off my palms,
And the tents with warm railings,
To face the deep, well-hung words of the Rich Book together ?"

I imagine the choir and venal stillness clouding about a reading,
A crime or clutch of complexion,
Your powdered legs slack as rays beneath the froth,
Your powdered face posing for cave paints or ikons.

My beloved, your eyes dock in exotic dimensions.
My youth is drum up there,
A stripe of wheedled tinsel,
Balled back down and lost in a corner lot.
More roots can come up,
The pin fist of the world rash and spined on itself
Milady, the stars are reams and heels of dock posts,
Punched through the high, blue mud,
Weakly preening,
The shape of a miring seed.

I've seen the sunning lark,
The sliding barge,
The solar slaw,
There crossing over the edge,
Of the mound of your palm.
Down the hall of your arm,
Caught there on a bough, drawing heat.

Milady of wire and weight,
The world's girl,
Aggresor in peach and grey slate ,
There is a stitch miles off I am worrying.