Skylarks Swallowing Stars
As published in Liminalities: A Journal of Performance Studies 16 (1): 26.
I wait. Abysses fold to amber-dawns,
that pitch of nothingness.
Sometimes I wish I were blind:
held softly by your voice.
Palmed by its undulations and rhythms—
crisp fires lit madly upon my mind.
The tactile sensation of you,
yes you, Fairweather-er, to guide me.
All made brilliant, crashed: warmth curled,
slackened desolate, silk-slips
in the bustled, bright fingerprints
of summer’s lost and rain-kissed midnights.
Ethereally cool, you stand—
a rush of droplets: seas to blossom,
swept to their coral flocks,
spider-ed by bliss as I uncover
liquid outlines, soul-perched
reflections (hauntings)—that matter
could ever dare to discover itself.
You are the October red that dots my heart:
needled, scratched (as fevered oases
burning at the back of throats)
wicker semblances and wanted hopes.
How cruel those remembrances,
sweet darling pecks—caught dead,
broken by all that is light in you—
repainting, cutting prophetic visions,
darkness cowering to that bold endeavour