Burnt-orange Sarabande
the desert daytime stingingly scoops up everything into its center
indifferent fluorescent lady of eyes and paws
every part of her body spills offspring
her platitudes lie in rusted rings around
it is because I think it is this way
your moon yours
that was always improbable
along the arc of the night’s tight arm
it broadens me flat against this baffling climate
sometimes at night I sense illuminated white marble
this is belated the ownership of a debt
O sorrowful Spain
through streets to rooms, the players undress their “Nights in the gardens of ... ”
night lights on tree tops reach towards the stellar women whose fault it is to chase
they leap past and brush the husband
they capture and penetrate the sweet hot lull of my paradox
somewhere a thrashing rainfall becomes a superb blue
but your moon is gaining on my night
***
Painted Crown
Lady Silver, shine
but contain no more rings than days or tears to harm a disappointed reason
The approximate sticky overplay can defer a daughter
from sounding deeply absorbed A stranger may arrive
and escalating chances clearly pronounce a beauteous nerve
Flames of irony are a fleeting ply
they recede in the antechamber of the amassed circumstances of debt
This perception is humble and stained
but veiled in brassy cult shadows;
it is a lament that can bend its ruby red permission to a cruel unalterable kiss
When the mottled world bites the neck of the graceful maiden
(such loving invincible mistakes, anything like waxy flesh)
the message of sexuality goes completely mad with virility
Sweet mating calls quiver perfectly in the bright blue room
The singing is interrupted Erroneous and enormous immunity
bedecks the scenario with its blazing bolt
The tongue stages itself in the blurred woods but is strengthened
by a blurting focus: tomorrow someone
else will tempestuously stitch another epaulette
***
***
