If Memory, Like a Laborer

Trying to establish a solid foundation amidst floods might allow us to compare that which follows. The stolen tail feathers of my knick-knack. With perspective a ready bauble. So much better to admire an orchid, that conspicuous lip with a fringed margin called cattleya. With a stepladder, I might fetch a vase, while you sustain the damper, bringing it down a half-note. Such deprivation. Was there no witnessed noise between the alleys? No onlooker left to rubberneck? Please, I have quite forgotten it. See how my toes unfurl with perfect ease.

Blushing at the Indecence of Flowers

So many ways to crush velvet, to crease satin, to ruffle sleek curls, or muss a delicate cheek’s rouge. I babble, an idiot holding a lampshade like a shadow-puppet theater. I would wish you a hammered-silver griffon, sculpted salamander, corn-cockle, brush against a unicorn. Anything not needful but necessary. I am beholden to a certain tapestry at the moment of moving a flame away from the sleeve. Your sister face. Glance that on the day of departure one would like to attach to a landscape one is leaving forever.

Calimony Makes the Spot of Oil

My gladiola, my glory-bower, from whence does this misplaced vanity spring? If I give you a bonnet that ties in a bow, it is not to bridle you. If I reach for egg tempera to take your likeness, you need not run off like a dog distempered. Revel rather in this revealed doubling. Follow this maker of corridors through a killing crowd. Garnish yourself in the fur of a skunk, after all. I weigh oblivion, your hazy slant perception against sturdy equestrian virtues.