4 the one who can grow a new tongue
Tale of me, the fold maiden:
the kisses are nose bleeds.
I rent that terrace image,
his.
Or I cast his laugh away--
a hundred year stone
of sunny,
sign the seasons of we
with lips, some sheets, the slip of a bloodied star.
Where are you my darling?
Watching me from your cave bush as I launder the bees too cobbled for the castle's keep.
I miss your songs, the decoration of rose plates. The lovely coast of your frown. The sky is flat again and the vines are done with their slow green crawl.
the kisses are nose bleeds.
I rent that terrace image,
his.
Or I cast his laugh away--
a hundred year stone
of sunny,
sign the seasons of we
with lips, some sheets, the slip of a bloodied star.
Where are you my darling?
Watching me from your cave bush as I launder the bees too cobbled for the castle's keep.
I miss your songs, the decoration of rose plates. The lovely coast of your frown. The sky is flat again and the vines are done with their slow green crawl.
posted by Tasha Klein at 4:05 AM
3 Comments:
I like this -- lots of imagery that bounces around.
This has been one memorable stop in the course of my trip through poetry blogs. Loved this piece; reminds me of the potency of ee cummings's poetry. ^_^
Such longing is communicated by your lines here (particularly those of the last stanza). It makes me want to sigh with much wistfulness. ^_^ Thank you for sharing.
Cheers.
Who would think that a line:
Where are you my darling?
That rocks a nose bleed or two.
Damn fine.
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