A beaker of bleach
bangs the bell of the ship, she is
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Song of the Concertina Lemon
blind but for this color yellow,
because she walks in beauty with the night, her daytime eyes are dim.
So I paint myself in sunshine, for her/ every morning
buttercream beyond legend/ the blondes of combustion
in the history of poetic nitroglycerine/ the day-true
story locked up in the sunflower sun.
My bright whalemoon
hung true halfway in the twilight
and halfway in the night.
I would die and be a lemon tree/ all fruit in her sight and she
would tell me through my roots
all the water-secrets. Yes, dear
she would whisper gold-truth into hard old ears.
When she died, the stars shut their eyes,
and all the world dreamed in black.
That day I left home for the whale road.
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