chameleon

mercurial enchantment
cast in the stones thrown in the valley of loss and sorrow's lament
bleeding out
in gamma ray'd awareness

rimmed in gold leaf and amethyst cooling
focus weaves a wicked spell
borne upon a hummingbird's back
into the diamond
curve
of
the
sun

today
i am love's jester rising
blown between worlds of
leather
and
black cake
buckled
feathered

commit no crime
write no words

that linger on a tongue slick with the tears of forgiveness
tattered and bruised
we heal to monarch
to the diamond
light
of
the
stars

day to night

preference to dust & the carnival masks 
the tatters of summer & billows to mast
mercurial children of moon & chiron
indigo magic kneeling at dawn

smelling of fire & sex at high-noon
we search for trails to our velvet brigadoon
uncovering silver & sorrow in sand
only to find it there in your hand

a hand that is slender & wisdom weld
a hand willing to serve others well
a hand recalled in the darkest of dreams
a hand parting the veil, piercing the gleam

so we find that path outlining the tender
Psyche & Eros collide in surrender
reality limits only the day
by night we soar hand in hand in the fray

preference to dust & the carnival masks
the promise of snow & vinegar glass

the seven of cups thrown at the door
moonlight evermore

river

river runs past corn stalk acres reached traipsing prickled wooded banks 

sandy ribboned channels cuts through this prairie summer 

water ankle-murky-deep 

freshwater winding rushing low cool water washing 

surrounds skin sun-warmed to tan

freckled sky open cloudless blue wide 

childhood current's respite felt languid amongst the swirl 

freedom's call to wild 

August

Wind blows tart 
sharply
pressed between strawberry longing at a quarter to cloudy
while
heat falls in tapestry-branched curtains heavy 

     with forgetfulness
the width & span of a thousand years
Will the peaches come on Sundays
     as they have before you were born?
What day is it?
                       Wednesday.
Medallions of lions tattooed along my thigh
itch from the sting of an orange wasp
forgetting the vastness of cone-flowers & yard chickens

The wind promises autumn the way stars promise dawn

all bets on the moon 

Time sharpens the lines 

blurs the marrow 

poured into the mystic of morning . . .