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Description
She walked gently but had not a care
for whether her toes or heels or cheek hit
the pavement first. She was lofty and cloaked
in the simpler, softer things the world had to offer.
She chose them because they were reasonable
and because of the way they spread
over every mare and peak of skin by the pull
of her fingers, born to wield things for the witnesses.

She never reached but with the years
learned curvatures of my palm and I waited
for the nights when bridges bent our backs
and she would take to me.

Let those lips remain the pouted plumes
to scrawl her clotted worlds.
Say she is mad as birds--
see the twist, the fallen,
rotten, wonderful that lines the tines in her features--
know she is my punctured madness,
a crescent line in my arm I crinkle in
thinking of days I want salt
in her skin and in every word she says.

Give me hours to rise and see those patches
she paints by nimble strike.
With eyes that look through tangled webs
that thrash in morrow's wind, she spins
her own to whittle out her soldier's hands.
Melody is lost to him and she knows the catch
of songs because they'll hold her.
I would sing the seas if tide
would moor her to me.

Description
She walked gently but had not a care
for whether her toes or heels or cheek hit
the pavement first. She was lofty and cloaked
in the simpler, softer things the world had to offer.
She chose them because they were reasonable
and because of the way they spread
over every mare and peak of skin by the pull
of her fingers, born to wield things for the witnesses.

She never reached but with the years
learned curvatures of my palm and I waited
for the nights when bridges bent our backs
and she would take to me.

Let those lips remain the pouted plumes
to scrawl her clotted worlds.
Say she is mad as birds--
see the twist, the fallen,
rotten, wonderful that lines the tines in her features--
know she is my punctured madness,
a crescent line in my arm I crinkle in
thinking of days I want salt
in her skin and in every word she says.

Give me hours to rise and see those patches
she paints by nimble strike.
With eyes that look through tangled webs
that thrash in morrow's wind, she spins
her own to whittle out her soldier's hands.
Melody is lost to him and she knows the catch
of songs because they'll hold her.
I would sing the seas if tide
would moor her to me.