Standing at his garden door,
he sips moonlight,
smells the closed blooms.
He is amber in a wine vat,
a coagulant of red shadows.
The darkness supports
his bones, it plucks at the stray
threads of stale years.
What is this shine behind his eyes,
this starry vortex
beneath his shoulder blades?
Strange angels have entered
through his unleashed being
and they are feasting
upon his compliant psyche,
dressing and undressing themselves
with his raw and wordless prayers.
Stillness finds its voice,
but will not speak it
until death becomes life.
one half’s an arc the other a strobe ~ light becomes your coagulant
signals and synapses firing off sparks ~ try open eyes but you can’t
all bound together forming a dream ~ welded to the somnambulant
I can smell the closed blooms,
the blue pelt of clutched colors.
Standing at my garden door,
I sip moonlight.
My skin watches;
I am an ember in a wine vat.
In my belly
a coagulant of shadows
washes away stale years.
What is this feral shine?
I lift my face
through opening shoulder blades.
I'm a primal wolf
aware of its dreaming body,
nothing can name me.
What of the girl sitting next to him,
blood and blood,
the same empty stare,
The coagulant dust, like mud,
drying
against these leather orange seats.
"My baby, my baby,
tafali, tafali alhulu..."
Now what memory will last
of my mommy's sonorous voice?
Will she return like waves in the night?
Shall I wait forever?
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