by James Farrugia
Daisied by the Sun, speaking to apples outside the doors
of webbing chocolate, her hands are warmed
by the nearest azure coast, far away, thralls of seconds
blanching in the deep swift of her cooling hands, seconds,
she cannot wait to linger for sound of rain or petals. Breasts
taken by the gloom of the shade yet to come,
her hands of light Fahrenheit, grape and vine as the Sun,
smiting down the flood in her chest, holding, halt!
The rising iris of hands, steepled like the beamed arrows
of her neck bones, adrift in the Sun; and the eyes
gazing up the blindness of their funnels, the venom of light
raking the hair into foliage and grape bundles; tendrils,
tentacles of the first fishing-hand, first female
driven to water for flesh, baring the mussel salt haste
to a violent Sun, drifting in the meadow of aortas, pumping
fast the swift rejection of lustful reading palms;
and the psalms arisen from the frost of Eden, the taken
apple rolling down as thunder, down her cheeks,
the webbing swift reprisal of posture, waiting for seconds.
Her hands are warm, above all the rust of chairs and hidden
doors windows of charms infinitude, till the moon
shall be let once again to flood like crater the nostril of Sun
spot navel, upper the thighs, within the holds of seed contours.
Daisied by the Sun, webbed and alone, on the hill unstrung.
Back to the Table of Contents