Far
off in the mist of a quarter moon's garden wails a midnight train, bound for
the island of majestic
sea lions.In between the vertebrae of colossal snakes, a river, perhaps too
treacherous for crossing, weaves in 4/4 time to bungalows of jungle dancers
and there i lie on a bed of thatch, awaiting the grace of my lover's skin.The
salt and the wind and the lapping, tearing of the sea have worn us smooth
and frecked in the sun, and iridescent raysalight our hair. We are golden
is ever, children now and then, and holding the conch to my ear i hear the
cry of that train again, drawing goodbye from my lungs and out through parched
lips.
He trickles around that spot on my neck where magnetic north spins the dial,
threads the needle back home to deep belly fascination and i tremble here,
reminiscent of some forgotten cologne. Those kisses are like pillow wishes,
vaults of teenage daydreams and rapid tongues of birdsong. Holding asleep
to the stone of winter's passing, a cascade to ponder one girl's very strange
dreams. Will he return for her before she falls asleep again?
Or
does this moonlight fancy gifts of vernal pond awakening, wrapped in a chorus
of frog tumbling, ribbons laced for cattail storytime? Once around the sun
ago, my heart planted a seed between the eyes of one very swift comet, and
he returns the gesture just as i have finally let him go. This one, i would
marrry, for he is the desert of earth, of fire, and mystery to my moss-covered
skin. That i should call him to my side, unzip the jacket from my truth and
fall skyward is a dream to animate with sunflower smiles. So i will wait for
seeds to sprout and dance to outrageous proportion before August throws me
in the lake again.
A
sundrenched coast of boulders and foreign logs held a season's worth of afternoon
naptime for a disappearing girl of free will and passion. And passing him
the kitchen, she feigned unaware of his softness, of the adolescence basking
in his voice. And there she made a wish that he would return for her before
she fell asleep again.
patience
holding the conch to my ear i hear the cry of that train again, drawing goodbye
from my lungs and out through parched lips. He trickles around the spot on my
neck where magnetic north spins the dial, threads the needle back home to deep
belly fascination and i tremble here, reminiscent of some forgotten cologne.
Those kisses are like pillow wishes, vaults of teenage daydreams and rapid tongues
of birdsong. Holding asleep to the stone of winter's passing, a cascade to ponder
one girl's very strange dreams. Will he return for her before she falls asleep
again?
Or does this moonlight fancy gifts of vernal pond awakening, wrapped in a chorus
of frog tumbling, ribbons laced for cattail storytime? Once around the sun ago,
my heart planted a seed between the eyes of one swift comet and he returns the
gesture just as i have finally let him go. This one, i would marry, for he is
the desert of earth of fire and mystery to my moss-covered skin. That i should
call him to my side, unzip the jacket from my truth and fall skyward is a dream
to animate with sunflower smiles...so i will wait for seeds to sprout and dance
to outrageous proportion before august throws me in the lake once again.
A sunbleached coast of boulders and foreign logs held a season's worth of afternoon
naptime for a disappearing girl of free will and passion. And passing him in
the kitchen, she feigned unaware of his softness, the adolescence basking in
his voice...and she made a wish then, that he would return for her before she
fell asleep again.