And Another Yellow Umbrella

apogee blue

I have gone out at night, when too warm and there are too many bodies right now I don’t understand…two things thinging at my temples; mis-describable; each orbiting at opposite poles in the nearmost breathing space; a tangential succor for my wonder clad’d skull.

A glass-like globe spins well light in fragile hollowness; (blue) the only
color it can not digest—being heavenly least; the globe between is very clear.

No-one will touch it. It is strong like an exact dream and could burn like abyssal rock probably burns. What I want to call hearts go afloat—splay and thrum; breathing hearts in breathingspace; religion the constantly globed.

This aroundness swallows whole prisms and leaves hollow little shapes empty of color; but like tiny starfish doves, they drop against the glass and spin emptily. Never speakering a friendlier kind of sound.

Seeing feathers as scale(s); some bone’s washed in light air as mute as flakes of isinglass. I forget the ground immediately, then

my gorgeous pretended bodies don’t know or can’t remember how to love other forms—the shape of arm, the wet of mouth, the press of hand.

Time of day emergencies; magically sluice the sky of cleaned cloth. I make story of it I hope my hands will someday tell; palatially speaking.

Below the tide creeps back and folds itself with salt and undertow; gulped by the cracked earth like an anti-drink; reminding how the mouth’s involved in burial and birthing; my grave swimminghole;

after which, I come to prefer the tide’s tale of all now; above which, the sky spits birds as points of exclamation.