The Stark Flight of the Soul.
A bird slaps my fever.
Curtains embracing
taste the varicose like letters flagging their hands up to the rain
and, hemorrhage after hemorrhage,
invisible songs weld
an aching scar
heaving with shadowed breast
and clay jaw.
The seagulls strike the bow
calling
lavender back to the lever of arms
in the pilgrims of a gaze...
...and sea
gulls call
and
seagulls
...call...
they are
vapour architects, glacial with mourning
and cathedrals to memorials
of the fit of cheek, the heart of shoulder, the map of lips and
silouhette
of all
the gone.
A whisper room - we vex, Portfolio King,
amber warming the lost poetry; words that
leave
you twirling out of reach,
the wolf's eye resolving pack
for the splash of winter on the tree,
the sad
love
of
leaving,
and
the spray that could cancel
a seagull
serenading
the fingertips ranting for you for
ever.
