My great purpose
Was to wake
With the wind still blushing, under her cloak,
And feel the blades of grass break
Beneath my weight
And breathe, and breathe, till my flesh sag, and bone wither and blood turn to soup
To water once again
This cycle of rhyme
But you of quartz time
Of a world more divided than honeycomb
In psychedilic prose
And liquored lyrics of
Cowards crooning catalysts
With pink thumbs
And wide mouth still wet with milk;
Your purpose
Serves no purpose
The skin you wear feels not as your own
For the treasures you parade bought on loan
Were last held perhaps
By some Mrs Smith of Montauk
The day she died, alone in the woodwork
With the tune of the choir and the name of her Lord
Still in her head, the part of her head
That didn’t partake in the horror
But paused at it’s most beautiful
It is a world of resonating hands
For I can touch you centuries after
Through the wooden mask on your wall
Once wielded as wood
By the lumberer whose mother use to run with a friend
In the wilderness of Wyoming
Where the friend had a father
And he an aunt
Who was my first kiss, one autumn
Under the breaking cherry blossoms
Her limbs, soft silver
And sorrel eyes, tinged with tears and
Floating tenderness
Dark with youth
And thus we are no strangers
You and I
Voices in the void, a century of suns apart
But a pair amidst pairs
A tremor within tides
Remembering life as you lived
With memories of mine
And I with yours, like words yet ink
Thinking thoughts I always had, even before I could think
So perhaps I am here
Raven haired, raven eyed
Painting a still lake, with a husband by my side
And you there
In the courtyard of my autumn age
Under cherry blossoms, and a splintered moon
Kissing my love, as me
Upon a different page
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