As I lay
with wide eyes against
the deadness, blankness
of a winter ceiling
against the earthen nakedness,
I recall those
ounces of teardrops
caught at this mouth,
from the stem that wilted
to bend them closer.
Bring your voice
close to mind.
I am peeling my layers
to hold you in the fog.
Laying in death’s pain,
healing in my dreams.
I wait for your storm to come,
to erase midnight into fear.
Daylight and risen fright,
the faces that I make,
knowing your leaves will fall
to bathe me in colors.
I have loved in this excess fade,
while the world clashes
in the blue against the grain,
the skies against the stains.
Clarity
of open imagery
that exits from eyes
to the time of infinite patience,
to hold your head
for the lasting kiss.
Modern Romanticism 