the kingdom of crimson Flora
she's sews
serpentine
needle begins
with our hearts
behind glass
embroiders
the clouds
just above
a ghost-reach
of grass
fog-shadows
the mist
in damp
hollow places
here at the edge
of spill
here at the emptying
of our moans
here at the bloomed
fields of silences
here at the edge
of every horizon
we disappear
seasons in
no compass is needed
to thrive without
mechanical clocks
whereas a tick might be
just another moment
clicked into a geared void
She holds all the pieces
of sane in Her pockets
and thimble fills each one
and leaves them on
Her big window sill
that watches the turns
of every wheel
She can find
like telescoping
the night time
in every soul
all the things
that catch
Her senses
are tined to us
though more than likely
She smelled Her way
here blind and thus
Her hands
are always wet
as She becomes
the carve-till of oars
into every part
of our mined will
that we've sold
to wear dreams
and the milk
for magic beans
She can bend
the light to
because
She knows
everyone has
dark spotted hope
in their sunshine
I just want
to give monsters
their faces
and pour them
Love to stay
in their graces
She whispers
in a song
of flowers
and a poem
She never minds
snaking our slags
to get past the past
and into the pure fine
of each grotesque part
of our beauty
She can find
because She knows
the root-bellies
of our seeds
never know
the Sun
except
by bleeding
home again
and crawling sin
with what vines
us new skin
when She sings
for us to get in
gravity and ride
EJR (c)
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