I
When was it that you learned to fear your senses? On rooftops after perfect nights the sun, I believe, blinds flowers yellow and that this is how we came to lie here in the grassy fields of yesterday's scent. You forgot what last year smelled of? Now it stares you in the eye to leave forever and is almost afraid you will let it go. Almost afraid to realize the precise orange of a falling flower, but you...you my love captured the black solidity of a tree so vividly in every flower; caught the skies crying in judgement and they remain your prisoners. They wait in the movement of your hand, molding my breath-they wait in gigantic silence. Trip tapping the melody of the soul in solid branches, oh my ukiyo-e, there exists around us an ocean deeper than the tears you cry. The entrance, so subtle in its melody. The snow looks almost ashamed of the purity in it melting too slow-slower than flower's orange and quieter still than rain clouds molding my breath(the snow melted yesterday and its daytime decides to live orbiting your shaking moon). No, leaves never return to the tree(please forgive me) and so walk, walk quietly through your river of black death, trees and strangers love gazes(you always return the favor). My eyes will find butterflies of your glass mirrors when it rains your autumn; is it your pastel gravity that makes this breathing so difficult? Oh, set me ablaze with your floating orange peel sky-The rain doesn't realize it's inches from the sea.
II
Home spices in the moon wind, scents outside dark houses even. Yes, the roses were the wind and closes every finger by finger on my heart red. Forever but ever and starlight like kite flight they linger some longer creating morning tomorrow. And Lights out-out there on a night horizon where lakes don't know our names and all those leaves are just a thousand ways of me saying i love you, I love tomorrow.
White attic doorways and yes you too will be swept away with the wind and spices placed gently in the wooden corner of time and left to dry with the hanging morning clouds. Because flowers need the complete black moisture of your eyes to fall so soft and accordians need the sky to cry. Back home it was discussed in hushing blushed stern and even the grass of the tombstone wilted longingly under your parent's windowframe. Oh how his eyes do die and yes he would never be aware if it weren't for your mirrors and dripping skies and the way you look at me and yes he does find words of dead men suitable to the creation of our sunset.
III
brilliant black on a fiesta day, i love.
spices and kites on a blustry birch bending,
blushing and flushing from moon dew ending-
leaves wash the spices from my body barely,
aware of brown attic beams and
the feeling of ancient maple trees
eaves and one day our feet will walk out our front door
trying red forest
Wipe always your tears from the skies
we're coming home
It is now morning.
Don't allow sunlight to walk out that door into the ocean and grow lonely being a thousand orange flowers
-as if I could for a flying second grasp your falling reflection.
Implications of prayers old unbearably if stars smell
their light looking back black as roses yesterday.
Barely float doors white over dusty
and window light when birds think it day and day think it night.
Water leaves turn over
behind your head trickle never dreams fickle seaside beams.
Uncover the dressers of old dreams and milk the sky for all the blood it's worth because this lost into the melody, death can't stop and can't and can't you sing me that tomorrow just one more time
-Might the nighttime of course explode-love.
Oh so orange and oh my God I love you.