Due Uccelli

We birds

in dense lament

for metal moss stream.

Over the bridge fly in sight

we will have shape, scrape

the burn marsh grass, the blazing terse,

and frost the leg pipe darken jewel

egg collapse like sea foam, like

battered cake apron.

Through parchment,

the hang edge orchard

we breathe the jelly egg: bread

and butter smear. We’re a wheat bellow

bride the cold of which forever

prickle. Wine and twilight and we tip

the bluer hats pasted soon

of the portico.

Harder salt touch

rock the straw stalk.

I scent your heart lonely

dazzling corn and naught

but the pone. And we’re limp things,

naught but sedge cheese left to the satchel,

elusive beaver moon dream

and brush knife.

We’re damp

and decadent whisper

snatch of mutual increase.

Savor the saucer jaunt. I’m a post.

You whisper glass poemies and grasp

the swipe board promise hold

and keep, lift and back high

and drink dark violins.

Emerge blue, superb,

bottle the taste straggle

and too tall hum for under

the flap of rainbow moth utter fall, light

the match and grasp damp, made much

for edge shapes and flat pour

cobble reach stitch. I’m strung

now by blur of whisp.

We birds,

tussle tic cupped

such adequate, sugar sweet

shrivel and unctuous slag. Any

brittle mantle horizon and bobbling under

where wounded throb from the cloth

hook harness clock. We strip

slice mill and beak out

to the dark.

First published in 3:AM Magazine.