Wood Sugar

When we too parted in blind reflections
Where we now drown in the light translucence,
Well....tomorrow, below a buffalo,
Inside eternity made cynosure,
Where blue radio universes disclose
Ink’s withered visages are shadowed
Oscillations to thee in five-foot steps
Laid out as clumsy, odd, osculate steppes.
Can I call you Green? Or soft truth? Red? Or
Is there another color in this look? For
To shed my wax upon your soft ear down
And wax your lips with a book of sweet hours…
Or, our we hour then, waterless yet gifted?
Better as ideograms, left out on a thread.
Have you tasted the mild
milk in the red cup, drifting down
your side, always in an Eastern arc?
I put it on my lips
And breathed
A Dog Spring,
collapsing in slivers
of penetrating rain.
We said the letters over again,
Spelling flower and petal strokes.
Your lips I left covered,
And what was left after
We our hour then upon your chest?
The light rain of this day
Only half past,
the violent gray of memory.

I have thoughts that escape me
upon your angular paper thin flesh.
When we two met, it was in,
In warm Easter skin, facing west;
I come to you now, with a prayer upon the mast. 

“Transmitting light but causing sufficient diffusion to prevent perception of distinct images.”