Silence skins the moon
the stars float along
lost in the stark like shit
summering in the Mississippi River
I look into your eyes
But your vision is clouded
reflecting the storm of butterflies
that tries to win your dandelion love
one cellophane-wing flutter at a time
I like to tease the lizard from your tongue,
watch you flick flies, spread your scales wide
rest your tales on some hot boulder’s tattle
while you soursop the fumes of the jaguar sun.
I gather ants by red fistfuls and feed them
to you, but you scurry away, afraid the stain
of desire’s sweet dragonfruit would taint your ivory
fangs with sticky juice from love’s ever ripening dawn
We think ahead and live behind, whistling broken
music, stuffing all the spaces between our joists
behind the crumbling plaster with the Future
written by your past, faded like old lipstick prints
crumpled yellowed sheets, dusty as Miss Havisham
the bridal veil lifts to reveal the morning obituaries,
the headline screams
“Death by erotic asphyxiation…”
Love succeeding to fail at the moment
of doubt’s self-fulfilling prophesy.
Maybe it’s possible to know a thing too well?
Maybe we should never lift the bridal veil?
Maybe we thrive on mystery and mispectations?
I can taste the vinegar in fruit before
it ever blooms. Does that erase the end
before we even have the means?
This turning of leaf, this evaporation
of years all become a forgone conclusion.
Preludes may play, but I only hear etudes
in the Cage-ing of staves, where both hands
finger the keys compressing the dream of silence.