Child of the Stars
Ann Arbor, MI
lakes of malted drivel, wading in
and pouring tiny, grainy golden
casts of meaning
half-reflecting on the sunrise,
half-pretending suns are dead
hoarding something spacious somewhere
in the gaps within its
whole-some-ness like crimson,
beige, and pirouetting blues in birds
on tuesday after-mourn.
paraplanting's quite like kissing,
but without the flames or touch.
every inch beside the valley
braves and wanders to their lunch,
served in cupcake trays in winter
and in hollow gourds before.
i have yet to meet a someone
who can serve these in his palm,
taking time for long-inhaling
of completeness in the dawn;
soon, i promise, he will find me,
and my morns of drinks alone
will have risen to the byways
and departed with their own.
I belong in Narnia.
i've never wrung thick toffee through my nose,
i've never flung my soul up
on a setting English horse.
i have only once drunk raindrops
that were faint reminders of
orange mornings stole in silence
while an eyelid shied the sun.
i've never called a girl i loved a fleure,
or betrothed my feet to queens and kings
and wrinkly magistrates,
though i do remember dressing
in a velvet under-gown,
and the thrill of meeting no one
when it fell.
there is nothing rightly purer
(though a glass-light does come close)
than the girl i left on periwinkled floors;
for as long as I impair her
she will never learn to wander
and i'll find her, where i left her, on the moor.
[This message has been edited by Child of the Stars (04-14-2003 04:01 PM).]