To M.LETTER I
you upon the fountain
and flipping back, triumphant.
You’ve conquered something
of gravity.
Taking my hand infinite,
I am felled by a dripping girl,
barreled by a strangled tongue,
torn by a spewing well —
the sight of you encased in marble
eroded my fissured flesh
to the butterfly sun,
eyes hard and melting.
M.,
If I
close my eyes…
you might storm
a burrow of daffodils,
and chase acetaminophen from beer-indulging chamomile giants
who stare — whites of eye and carven honey-lips — in the early water dawn,
their trembling caterpillar respiratory petioles
craving your life fury.
Such nuzzled exhales you give,
pressed to the entangled grass with shreds of sky, yet
your night bereaves me of sight.
In a secret Eden where He bares His own sinking,
remorsing the loss of Fjörgyn, I pare
to the earthen enclave and murmur,
“The spider in this aftermath spring
flounces soaked chelicerae at the unclothed eyes.
But between the winged, suckling gazes,
only I saw
how inadvertently you pulled the meadow’s weaves
and how it set all
upon you.”