She stretches tautly, vigorously for tournament, yet her hair is soft and her features are perfect. Her eyes say peace. Her character is stalwart and her intelligence is real. She’s got the figure adorable. Ruffled hair she wears casually. Her quizzical looks are friendly. There is a brassy perfection in her voice, a grasp of the issues. The light blends well with her complexion. She does not bend her head far from the vertical. She quietly questions our world. I’ll describe her motions in rouge on white stock paper. Two or three lines can describe her appearance, friendly to consider.
Limeade on my tongue, and your heartbeat and your hair my feast, you barefoot girl innocent among spearmint leaves. Let us sleep and wet each other down with kisses until my fingers touch you and search for you more deeply, and your heartbeat and your gold hair press upon me. All I have left is a rusted heartbeat and a mind. I will give you a blue feel for love rated R, rated X. This is the dust of dense words undamaged by wind that sucks fruit for the blue symbols found in it. Just give me dense red rain.
In nebular cantos, the starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century releases its spectacular flags. Electrical storms are innocent, gathering rain like old words in an evergreen-emerald canto. I view night after night them detonating the sculptured rose, the scripture of rock that night takes to the poor–a stillness of my own, though reason is my endgame. The graveyard is the reason the centuries storm the last red rose, pulse-red and rooted in the ancient blue moon mounted above the canyon. Don’t burn the evergreens in a ritual storm. Let reason be your rose allegro, crystal, raven-hearted.
Words are the cup I drink from, containing my perceptions and restorations. Words set blazing in me even as I put them down, rivers of restorative color that medicate me as does Schubert here and there. Jeremy Fire, you must be honest to lift the great song. Don’t let old memory get lost in the woods. The butterfly wing and tear light are native here. Words are the cup I drink from. Schirra I will remember when a lot of other things are ruins. Strike up the music for a page of poetry. “The poet speaks syllables of mangled silver.”
In the river, crosscurrents. Under a stand of trees at the bank, ice shelves are covered with twigs and grass. From the bridgerail we ask about the age of the river in the sun, lovely for its alluvial deposit of memory in us, song sung blue. A poor creation is my dreaming if I do not learn from the dazzling dress of nature and the sudden wind at streambanks. An inner conversation like rain coming down in us is us, from age sixteen and forward. And these things are crosscurrents, memories of our married love and sirens raspberry, cranberry, vivid.
Cool door, never changing your view that beauty is density. Your slanted window glitters more when dry leaves blow down around you, admitting more light into your chamber. Bless the dance that never breaks down, the detonation of finishing for awhile with the ongoing. Bless the tree of words that also loses something in winter and therefore admits more light. The chords break off on the carillon, but their delicate structures, their delicate music makes a marathon of our good days, an unbroken lustre. I etch a mountain shadow. It is my tribute, and I do studies of the rock.