seized the day too
of rings of lovers
content to imatate
by kissing jokes in the arms of war
love harvests an original word
—a dancing decoy/a toe gate.
I don’t know what I can be
should you write lines
down for me
The more briefly I lie
the faster I flie
Design me in your arms
fold me up like an oragamy tragedy.
Then you will see the real me.
Love will have played with armored hands’
Heads or tails in the battle heat…
A good leg, a lead foot, a silver toe…
coughs that red color circulating Beat.
A migraine without speech
A golden calfve, still milk bleeds
Until the sun bows at your perfect feat.
All I know, softer than hard
the prickly value of love
the teating hands that touch
vowes made inside.
A monarchs wings reowned, both opened
a queen without a band
pages marked open, but unbroken.
ripened clouds depart
paper ends, pieces in part
hands remain true
terrain like fingers, in the sky blue
as a silver pointed pen inks,
sewing corn lines
angles blink, unfold us carefully
like a shoehorn unraveled.
It’s tongue holds many songs
fly words, strong like a jet lines
it remains, a marker in the sky.
the arms of you, the arms of I
loose like fireflys talking
hear the sea walking.