Asleep behind the rough fig
surf of yellow scales, camouflage of fairies
in the sordid forest.
I have a path foliage about my face
a furtive worm's albino fuzz traces
in silken tingles aches of long ago.
In vertical vertigo shine
map of concentric circles, barely enigma.
As in the painting by Klimt . . .
Strange proximity, two.
I Smell of "Amber Parenthesis"
Sinister delirium to love a shadow.
The shadow doesn't die.
speak the same language,
scent of fresh flowers
in the distance,
of spices in the hair.
You were delayed by the awakening from a murky dream.
Aquatic Ophelia, conspicuous vibration
anointing in abundance your own bones.
This poem is the wind arriving to air out the enclosures,
"wing of a cowardly bird," you call yourself, I call you wound, litany.
When you appeared the world stood steady,
a bottomless lightless bloom:
there's no more thirst.
Although I suspect you're cyclical,
I won't wait for you anymore.