Women

In corporal masses,
in ethereal hues,
in silent swallows the morning blues
in a forgotten mask that morasses,
in a web all lovely lasses.

In slippers skirts and skews,
in the green grasses
all comeliness gracefulness amasses,
in so quaint an eye dews
in hope against evening rues.

In substance that surpasses
and beauty that brews
all masculine gases,
in a blind that imbues all cues,
in light we are all fools.

Metamorphosis

rippling cross the sky,
swollen red magenta spreads
slowly
entwining...
unraveling...
pink waves that dimple blue.

and melting, the crests collide and in a purple rift,
the sky - a wrinkled skin
again peels
to a bleeding orange
to almost the seeming of a tiger-lily
sprouting, turning, in the frets and folds of Zephyrus's breath.

and like the new-bodied blooms over-running the meadows,
now the vivid orange swallows and transcends on itself,
and the awe-inspiring yellow almost even gold skies
open
open againblue.

Soothe

The strings
tightly wound inside
a frame

imbues and solidifies
the plaster
we inhale and

the tunnel
within each,
ever so gently is
bound, unspoken.

waiting,
always waiting.
we stood
permanent
in pose.

and attired in silk
in stone
we watch a
still blue
soft moon
rise together

and in crystal
gloss in gaze
in ever-fixed trails
we remained,
unbroken.

Could I, Would I

Bury myself in a mass of brick,
perusing the blood to ooze and ooze
between and beneath, in channels thick.

Could I snuff the blues, tighten a noose
upon myself and suspire no more,
still my rhythm and fully diffuse?

Or might I aspire myself to soar
to the silhouette in the twilight
only once to discover its core.

Would I then quench this lone candle's light?
smoother, suffocate its innocence.
with a pinch of two fingers: finite.

How could I then seal with negligence
this one kindling candle's opulence?

The Painting

In quiescence, a cloud crowns in its cage
and in the spun twine of the sketch, a fly suspends
and remains.

Engraving the silence, the mosaic hangs
etched on its corner,
the words
of some deference.

Endless is the gaze. Nothing eludes
nor does the minutes elapse,
transfixed in this pastel
is a still raving sea
with no crest and no wave,
and gaping ever widethe sun
dead calmscans back and forth and to
an eye engaged in its own.

A carbon copythis resemblance
under which remainsconscious fixated absorbed
in quiet stagnationin a reflection,
we stand.

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