Tranche of Time
Icy heart of a hoary Moon
Wringed by a wristlet
Of Fire.
Razor Wire. Doomed Desire?
Short lived, short armed, long reached Lavender month.
Tongue of barbed steel. Cleaving the thick months, shredding the years. Razor reckage.
Yellow month, summer Sun.
Hot heart, Boreal breath.
Wringed by a frozen crown, showering fine flakes of Purple Ice.
My fat fingers, busy bugs, scrabble scorching sand for shards
Of Lavender, nicked from a frosty Moon.
Stubby, clumsy clumps of fleisch scrape the surface. To sieve and mine.
And Mine? She’s her own alone. Sun yellow, calico.
Hot hair, Lavender eyes. Icy Iris.
A Queen guarded jealously by a swarm
That buzzes in alarm
At my pale gaze. Lukewarm.
Luke: And they were sore afraid. Not She.
Shedding horny hides for thick scales, humming swarm a slurping school
Churning now, a slick wring circling Her, herding Her
Toward the Lake.
I’d follow, but my Heart
Would freeze them in a clump like canned sardines
Or Boil
Off the lake water, leaving them screaming
Like Lobsters
She alone stands her Sand, her patch of Beach.
She alone melts memories with a swift look.
Lavender shards. Purple crumbs.
The trick to snatch them up and stuff
THEM in an empty pocket BEFORE
They melt. ALL LIQUID.
The pocket’s a hole in it, anyway.
