By the ease of skin in ink
her fingers line his surface: the writ
compelled by the interior of stone.
Among the lives of pages a stir of slow
blends her subtle refuge of mythical bliss
with jokes and the deadening of graves.
Mourners weep into the sunrise; a melting
of dreams to the knowledge of light.
Compel me to write beyond this plane of gods
and little things, where pigment eases reluctance
and figments play ‘Imagination’. The dazzle
of her Babylonian mind gathers to her enclosure
his ink of grief, bowled into primary
nouns and vowell’d down pewter tongues.
Terracotta suns gaze immobile over her snug
courtyard: Copper deities drool peroxide rain.
Ravens covet the skirting of her mind.
It is within her salt that love groped
gorgeous, the grass, into her deeper green.
She turned upward to the pelt of sky and of its
Hesperus pool, she begged the quench, never
to die from her thirst of stars