no mood for calendars
or dogs named pablo.
the four winds
cannot be seen
i need postcards.
a vestal flame. stilettos
engraved, the sound of a page.
you want a diary. you want mercy to stay.
and here, this earth is disconnected from your hands.
you sing of sirens destroying themselves, splintered
strands of hair on a narwhal's horn. for you imagine:
what of narnia, what of poppyfields, what of bedsheets
in war? we stumble, i stumble, you soar and fall.
psyche is wandering. eros is beneath the floor.
shellac crumbles. the tone is sweet candour.
you want a diary. you want patience to play.
cross my fingers. crack my collarbone.
leave the front door
a spanish galleon could've sunk
in st. mary's bay, the madonna's bosom, after all.
each conquistador, a gold-leaf wraith
with forgotten titles.
their daughters' letters
in frosted bottles
of gaia's comb.
seaward, can you smell the moors?
orangeblossoms, heather, a gypsy cradle.