A gail of night blew softly down
The down lay waking, slowly, yawning- hidden
The caricature of night loses its chagrin
Enveloped in ideas that steep long into indigo
This dark texture has wooden shoulders,
Burning never from the toiling of its intent
To take on that rich finish born of well-oiled rubbing
And solvents- sublime.
Manzanita rouge paired with
Lace-wood’s un-repeating intricacy
The warm hue of mixed motion exudes
The musk of Lover’s- divine.
Would be the woodworker, hard on his knees
Stop at midday for a rumble of softness?
Lunch on pillows and breasts
Peeking out, peaking up
The slow mind wanders
After eleven hours of eye-burning CM.
The post-dinner banquet of thoughts
Travel South in Winter, seeking sweets.
I am wandering everywhere tonight,
Allowing the murmur of whatever the fuck wishes to be said-
To be said.
Wise? Ancillary to my cause.