No words this day.
Only images
that steep and pool
on the corneas
and stain them
a melting blue
or a burnished green-gold
where a young leaf
cups a thought
within a bead of sunlight.

Sweet, chaste.


What then of the wind
that ripples through the trees
and wakes that which
wants repose.
Much as I wish for it
the tint of clarity,
it is imbued
by an opaque desire
that lies
nameless and heavy
upon my heart
with the sticky sweetness
of raw, summery, melting honey.
And which
will not be shifted
nor turned
by the blinding innocence
of the day.
Pray, what colour is desire
that it stains my eyes so.


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