Open your bruises. Keep your eyes
the music of waterfalls. I long
to kiss the daytime into silence,
while we caress, when we undress
all our wounds into becoming
scenery we cannot ignore,
cannot come to abhor.
Take the message of a rotten man.
Hear his plea, from beneath,
where sickness is his parasite,
and also, his appetite.
He holds blood in his hands,
brought from a fountain of his words.
Hear what a second time will not be
if he has surrounded you,
thumping like corpses of those dead,
falling like breath that has failed
to keep leaves still quivering.
Let passion bite
through your scars, to send
a forgotten sensation
beneath your fingernails.
Dig into what his kisses are,
having nothing else
besides the garden
he has presented to you.
Dig to discover his name to keep,
merging what little tears
that you can weep. Let him know
that it no longer needs to snow.
Let him grow
as you lift off, far beyond
a defeated Heaven.