What does Beauty have to say as she comes
Strolling down the avenue, through tinted rooms?
Her beat struts out of time like a broken drum
Muted like a flower, silent as a moon
Only half as good as the rest of us
The symmetry they tell us sets the mood
For gazing, stalling, gawking like herons
Stuck on one foot, craning, stirring thoughts lewd
At nature’s seeming perfection, out of tune
With the rest of the brood’s brutish short comings’
So shall she desire to speak later, soon?
We then must decide, due all these flatterings?
Speak not, fair flower, admirers welcome
Knowing God’s prolific imperfections.


There will come a day, as days come, it will
When all our instruments will cease to exist
Our sights, thoughts, and hearts, will no longer fill
With all these tangible things in this earthly mist
A dream? No. We are here for a short while
We stand upon this rock, cast off through space
Stowaways aboard, two thieves in exile.
Just awhile, here: to hear, feel, touch, smell, taste.
I know her carbon cocktail… our first date
Her gooey orb’s canvas, my silhouette
Were we to die, have it like at Pompey
Two preserved lovers frozen by heat, set
She held my hand, listened, kissed my wet lips.
This strange dream, a-day, a-sleep, in a wink.


Dearest Sparrow in your foreign nest
What skies do you see and hear tonight?
Does warmth come from twigs or by silver crest?
What dreams unmasked in slumber lend insight?
I wish to unfold my wings around you
And feel your tiny beating plumaged breast
And pluck a feather, a token from you
Grasped in my talon, forever to rest.
The night we pranced to music’s melody
Upon the windy currents, wing on wing
While others floated, spun in parody
Locked, we descended softly on a limb
I search the flocks for images of gray,
Where hearts, one spirit, never had to say.


My every word has come from something else
Faded, a mimicry of memory
Tossed about tenors: from French, Saxons, Celts
Always searching for sounds, some symmetry
Whose words, not mine, pierced together, strung, wound
Slipped off the tongue, cobbled stones put in place
Dug down, worn down stones, oblique, jagged, round
Leaves such a bitter, stale, charred, clichéd taste
So how can I find for you just one word?
One new, not one evolutionary
But rather found like some species of bird:
Three winged, double beaked, five toed, canary
To fly and sing from my mouth full of stones
Where “love” has lost its marrow, sinews, bones

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