SONOR

I am on your memory

alone, upon it, as ever 

you were 

and now, perhaps 

we'll be as salt-lick 

as moon-milk 

as axis-bloom 

as monsoon.

What soft curtain breathing 

swell, dissonant

overhead/ballons 

crescendo.

I am livid for your

gracious apparent swoon

dorn my -ish

fasten art and lore 

to my thigh side and 

call it history 

call it anything

call it juice, let it run

but taste its fall

as words fall from me

to be consumed by the 

shapelessness that 

laid them in persimmon

and breathed  

them, held them 

in clay 

and cobble.  

suffer me, stutter, 

and stay your tongue.

ripple, love young.

as green storm 

pour, drizzle

in my cheek, cricket wing

that well-been sung,

my darling, 

portentous lung.