Polonaise
A branch raised
in both hands.
Hawthorn. Flowers
fill your lover’s room.
Skin mixed with its musk.
So the gods enter. Laughter.
Skin’s deceptive porous comfort
through which they rush
to their 7th, Helios
laughter itself.
You and the book share
mud and mud hot mysteries whose confused roots
seven jeweled reins rule deep into pre-existence.
Chaos reined in by planetary whips. Any order makes use of
impoverished purities of form that decay, decay by law
but love preserves each as the bark splits and the trees
are ripped away.
Adore me adore me adore me
images of you dear reader
left in me by the devil’s passage.
Hawthorne. Laughter. Solar
branches track through mind’s breath
comes back to itself
by the help of elves
fixed to its musk.
Attention breaks
the voice fades
into a native silence.
These are the two suns mud and mud where the hawthorn
in potentia live and where their images dazzle
her admired whips pre-organize the tracks
fleshed musk thrills the doom of my room
Polonaise 2
Heart’s masonic
pillar burial
the life after death walks
along the triangle’s edge
three abysses
three hands. Close.
Actual stars hold
the ceremonial sword.
Ghosts
sword thinly out
from the choked closeness.
Ceremonial honey
green whispers through
within the ear
and robes flow out
past the hand past wind past street past heart
robes flow from the immersion, free.
Breath catches on the heart’s white veins
of whip-scars and tough bleary webs
so the reins of the planets come to mind
borrowed from their hollow cards
through hieratic gloom
learn to love night’s letters
emerge alive again
this one truth
there is to offer, hold
an actual hand
into horizon’s
bind, the heart’s
invisible pages concealed in the aether turn bats in the darkness
turn the sound of wings bat me down into sleep
to deliver little by little the brave witchy metal of noon.
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