November 20, 2014

pane and brachial reach womb framing...

she reads how

the sun outside
cracked dusty glass
is ol’ November

a death angel pilgrimage
in cut lean light
a thicket bramble
bone finger wobble
oaks and maples cast
in skin 

shadow sentinels
losing articulation 
a daytime faster spin 
a Yule tide undertow 
wassailing time with sin

I lose track
of word formations
feeling my way
into the poem
what it will sound like
feel like taste like smell like
how much of it will be
how reason lost its way here, too

I fantasize
she ambles
in oral aural
angled bouquets

she’s reading me 
angels atop pines
fallen for flattery
she knows her eyes are
hypnotizing ventricle balloons
release parlor tricks
making the dog howl

verses are squeaky squishy
bending ambulettes rescuing perspective
vignette(d) images, sounding motion

the endings, she says
are always the perfume
that seeks our eternity

in all the bodies
we ever knew
awareness is always
turning wheels, seasons,
clocks, calendars, noses and eyes
seeking a soul
trying to remember
what we smelled like
deep inside the poem's
point of view


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