My Naiad, figurehead of the ship of dreams
Great infinitesimal being
Crowned by a ring of seabirds
Dissolving into a sole dove
Among thorny stars

The sea bleeding into your green eyes
The whole world oxidizing
Everything has roots
Everything is a flower

But you.
Brows: seagulls intoxicated on brine
And the sunny void

A heart like a sky
Where my kisses tinged, candidly as stars
And my eyes became gears,
Axles in the moon’s Dream-clock

The conch unleashes the insidious river of music
“Does love change hips or lips, lands or hands?”

Am I yours, are you mine
Or are we ours;
The womb’s,
The water lily’s,
The wake’s?
(This lingers on cerulean shells)

The moon is a half emptied carton of milk
Medea’s blood capsized like a topaz into the grave
The sky: a carafe of tears cascading
Over spume-laden and radiant orchids

A portmanteau of a quiescent summit
Nefarious, motive shadows
Receding among resounding echoes

Your nocturnal gaze solidifies
The barge of my iron-wrought name
Above the white river’s estuary

And a sonorous hymn of fountains
Pervades the jaded earth, ours to dream over

I. Between dreams and cots
Abstinent from warehouses
In the boudoirs of virgins
And my windowless soul
Love spread itself in garlands of clouds,
Clandestine hazels
Among your laky eyes that
Grasp shadowy minnows,
Moored to the sky of my brow;
Solitude’s pincers
As if drunken bells
Of emancipated doves

A raven exasperating,
A bee among the moon’s stamens,
Whitening your diurnal hills of eulogies

II. I, resurrected like a lighthouse
Doused of hopes
With your subduing prophecy
Of aged mirrors, neon sermons

Nascent swarms of scythes severing me
Into cologne-anchors of snuff-bottles
That, furious waitresses vend to narcissistic queens
And their dead infinities of regattas:
Oars of imperceptible hearts,
Oblivion but riggers in spumy reveries
Rising from a slumber of substance
With a cascade of hope
That snows onto my barren soul

In the form of wheat-ears
Weeping violets
Flasks of sorrows, lesions

III. Death: a kiln of ash, wombs
In streams of Christmas lights
That exonerate my chaste soul
Of inky armoires, milky chrysalises

Among aromas of a lonely
Wharf where the barge of kisses,
Keels of enigmatic mouths,
Within waters of time,
Departs for your isle rooted
In my laughter
That is the offshoot
Of your melancholy

Forged of aloofness,
Upon this carousel-world,
Where our lives infuse tears
As wicks or roads
Of matted, snaky coils,
Ensconcing bread’s
Breasts of chaff

Solitude promulgating:
Guitars of crows
And chords of mourning

The trains are all asleep
In the embittered pine forest
Windows disentangle themselves
From their ashen coats
Boreas assailed in twilight’s grate

The moon extinguishes her cigarette of a still comet
A star descends into the cesspool of anguish, pinot
The night weaves garlands of clouds
Crowning the snowy, implacable hills

All flesh, life is in deep slumber
From the mountain to the lake
All but you, me, us on the vagrant rails

Axles inscrutably spin the sky into a coat of solitude
Gears morph clouds into air-flowers
Are we but butterflies flitting,
In the spring-like smog,
Past the amber-paned sky,
And the tinsel sun?

The train of dreams departs the station of my eyes
And enters your soul
Here melancholy coagulated
In lost keys to April’s coveted light
Lapsed coins to night’s vending machine of dreams:
Water’s smile
The pendant of a bluebell
Autumnal roots

The switchman is a tea-brewer of
Verdant dreams
The absurd world is but a pre-loved kettle
The womb’s water
Kerosene of childhood days
Spray of the tulip-barge approaching the
Peachy horizon
Throbbing sparks as
Rootless,
Flower-intoxicated
Star-burgeoning
Trains
Raining into your
Gaping mouth

Our lips coalescing
Into the sole mass of an
Unopened,
Bullet-riddled
Kiss
And an infinite
Track of laughter