These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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Ex profundis, the bright-piercing blades
beyond gold, beyond silver, beyond any deeply-held colour of earth or ore or bone-knowledge: calling sweetly of childhoods, clover, and bare feet - sunlight shining, an angelic wing pure in space, warm and nectarine, aurora and lucifer, motes dancing in remembrance of that sudden spring rising from the east
touch me and shatter me, oh beauty of sunlight!
My sweet, you for whom I have lusted and, lusting, died in shame for lust, fill me. Already I can feel need making dust of my clay. A breath scatters me like leaves.
Only the blood yet lingers, reluctant, congealing on the threshold of evaporation like the pools of dusk. Shadows lurk, waiting to drown.
