Our love fades
on the waves,
sandstone cascades in
coral flower haze.
Interior dawning
breaks mild confusion.
Choirs of Winter
breathe frosty refrains.
Sandstone cascades
on the waves, gently,
as our love fades.
With every swift spin
the screw splinters,
attracting. The
one thing you know,
you’re acting on praise
and teasing displays
these days.
Debated routines
are somehow related
to schemes beneath talk
that’s cocktail-sedated
and pillowed by
pillocks who
brazenly ask you
to beg.
Clumsy spins
spyrograph, fingers
perplexed. Whispers
spent hexes:
“aye eight, see six
eff five.”
Awkward swivels,
ambivalent tries
& hazel eyes cry.
He’ll never deserve
those sweet,
colored curves.
With these branches
hanging between,
must we wend this
twisting trunk only
catching glimpses
beneath bark and brush?
Meet me higher still
and if we fall
at least we
won’t
plummet
alone.
You might inspect your seatbelt strap
before you undertake
this interview of babbling ids,
this visionquest for rage.
Suspensions are a springtime mix
with jaunty underneath,
so when the rationales have dropped
you’ll never keep your seat.
Instead, reverse and harken back
when hatred from the rabble drawn
with finger paints and black crayon
was still an empty page.
Feste's Lute 