Friday, February 4, 2011

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.

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