Songs are burning at this moment, spilling out upon the page in sun-patterns, or like an earth full of roots. Lingering in our glasses is winter and its six-sided chemical, moon-white. Teardrops fall upon your page of mathematics describing the dark red medicine of the future, but far over the orchard there is a new growth of stars. Night is certain of your pulse, and photos of glory in America are like pink smoke touching our cellophane hands. Somewhere deep inside of us, colors crash down upon the Oliver Goldsmith Telescope in the grove. Angels respond furiously.
Her face at three-thirty in the morning is a mysterious page of determination and heart-driven sorrow. Her hands are the scorched music of other faces now grown bone-blue from the small-town life, a life that is now street maps hammering in moondeath. Yes, there is a pattern in this thunder, momentum to the shadow I speak (true even in a night tasting of smoke), and a physical eloquence to the breeze beginning in secret stone passageways. The green lamp of silence shines an excellent distance before saying goodnight. Children of nature circle the colonial village bell.
Dry moon, dry-ice moon on the necklace of stars. History dreams of citizens equal to its electrical work, equal to its imagination and night. Her shattered words burn in clusters near hands and faces that terrify. When the breathing darkens, the lover’s touch breaks off in my hand, and red lips map the composition of crystals and elements. An eighth rest and a laugh, an eighth rest and a laugh. Energetic harvest- rhapsodies descend from a grand heaven flame-driven to churchyards beneath lamplight. This will be the electrodynamics of objects in motion, queen of hundred-year-old wines.
Chocolate chips melted on her chin, her heart spills over. Her voice is full of the poetry I will need in greeting old age with love. Her voice has the Christmas colors that never sleep, full of charmed mornings and singing lovebirds and the waltzing she does after school. She is a rose in the wind, a sparkler blessing everything we believe and every mystery in this keepsake. Her cherry, cherry smiles are as lovely as any daughter’s ever, and I want you deeply to reflect and contemplate upon the sacred faith in the future this voyager creates in us.
“I wish this spring a counterpoint to shudder through my memories of the sun,” said Richard Burton as the century closed. “I wish hymns to the twilight yielding unbroken stars.” Richard Burton stands in the ballroom of the Gilded Lion. The face of the planet wheels through December. Like a reckless alchemist, he sees night’s voice pointing north. He puts some thought and reason into seven sudden sharp golden notes that jar the hard shadows, a choral storm between nothingness and clusters of meteor petals, the beryl voice of a Christmas concert.
In a place I write called The Lyon’s Rage, I think of your bright hippie awareness telling me I am thinking nicely of her in fits of desperation. Worlds of beauty. The tree of stars. The sapience of workers. A spicule of Wagner, and in my heart Ysolde there is a small area of discourse that will save everyone some money and light, as if it were her very heart, Nicole’s very heart and tree of stars. Everyone loves her. Everyone loves her river song. It is as if everyone were endeared to lyrics I wrote at The Lyon’s Rage.