Singing Fountains, Rooted Trees


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


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