These mossy doors
open only in the dark.
A lime sun lurks behind
a fertile midnight.
Many flowers drop petals
on a lake of frozen wood.
How did the grain get into water?
I go into these fine lines
to find the tasted soil
of my real ethereal maker.
Wings flex tents of bright
transparent skin around
a heart that's mammal warm
in its reptilian phase.
Phrases turn into books,
kisses become whole families.
An angel must be mercury
in the thermometer, must indicate
the atmosphere in frolicsome silver
and never become a part.
An angel as a hinge
becomes the warp of art.
The female keeps
the necessary part.
No comments:
Post a Comment