Blue Music Dream

Her Body at the Colorist’s

She carries a manual everywhere she goes

You never know when you’ll meet a child with crayons.

Imbued with the intuition of mothers

She takes my hands between hers, between her.

Redwood bludgeoning from her many many sights

As each leaf of the wet manual turns, each becomes an arm of the clock

A clock of infinite arms,

The harmony of which is between her,

The source of which is an intact spine

An ox-bow lake at the small of her back

Sperm floating like whales,

The colorist seeks her outlines.

 

This act, lacking iambics

Is termed as a victory over youth.

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