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bride
Pronouncing the autumn curtain
in your cheeks, rusted with the dew
of manhood, Italian parsley coiffed
between the ham rolls of your
slender fingers.
We take away the pancakes
and replace them with pancakes.
No ibexes in the zoo today.
Just empty, aluminum gazelles in taffeta.
A mad, spraying nectarine
into the paste of our eyes,
a steel gull cries and the sky,
through knots of mesh:
why does it always have to be
so imperial?
Open the curtains, love,
we wait for the pretend blender.
You begin the x-rays.
And me, Emily Dickinson's maid,
with a June bug caught in my hair.
what is beautiful is now red
A brilliant convulsion
inside my midnight trellis.
A nihilistic pop of grass,
grinding a blaze above my bed.
The bitter cream moth of her mouth,
abundant and almost secretly dancing
The curvaceous tome,
the chipping crustacean of her lips,
Snow white chocolate fingers,
green stems,
But her mouth!
A gardenia-laced square
before every swollen tongue
solemnly manipulating my position,
Nomadic fingertips
always open to grotesque air
as if this room never left its
candid mistakes of conversation.
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