II

The sun was too much mirror 
So I pressed into the wood 
Where something sacred pooled in rust and busted diamond shells 
From the sun-punched bones of old trees and the quick love songs of dragonflies, 
The folds of hot feathers are scratching out a broken psalm. 
I feel lost to the paper song of 
Book spines hugging open 
In painful bursts of light. 
And my bones can hardly hold the hooks of stars that burn beneath all things. 
I feel the song of blood, and the sudden war of bloom 
Chewing quickly through 
Some lame grey twine I’d bound them to. 
I wonder again
How flowers survive in this world.
With its hot sky hinging on their halos 
And the dust- mouths of catacombs sucking at their feet. 
We are alone, so I let my lips graze against the sweet pulse of a thistle 
Our shared electricity pulling me from filagree to spine. 
My toes are folded into the story of a stream 
Falling Through the web of dust pretending to hold me. 
In a moment, we are bones.
Pages dipped in flaming ink. 
Stories told through Starry teeth.
Time worn hands cats-cradle us
in a basket more moonlight than matter.
And I somehow feel safe here, in the dynamite of everything. 
And the great human hurt. 
I know that the thistle will hold to my kiss, that the stream will fold my stories into her emerald skirt.