POEM

You—with your olive tones, sweet with citrus ascending—
completed me, fructifying, heavily, heavenly bits,
such brass, engulfed me in oceans
of mammoth macrocephalis mind-pull
in layered winds that now blow, with gail-force,
through the Colosseum of the future
where I may someday see your efflorescence,
burning, blurring,
between Nowness & Pastime:
It is then, what satisfaction may warrant glances,
enforced by the roots of our history—
terrestrial hue, superficial twilight?
Mock me, spawn what you said was your “dark side”—

Stone me! I’ll bleed & bleed with sublime southern herb,
first sulphuric floods, without flame—
as if color was a curse—I shall be the black-bird
that grows white, as your darkly darts of monstrosity
seeks distinct extinction,
blatant voice of fiery sorrow
unlighting the candle, frozen wax,
there is no elixir, no cure-all,
for I still love you, could still love you more,
even as a resurrection would soothe for a time,
or would a cloud of smothering soot keep shadows
lying upon where the flower yearns to grow,
but cannot?