a cardiac freeze repressed by the past,
not the now, but sludge in the pipes
and a falsely coy regression,
conceived of white and purple shorts
that waltzed on the shadowy veranda,
reeking of bougainvillea with sinewy vines.
could we distinguish the pinks
of fallen petals and mammals?
they both screamed in manic falsetto
that rose to white and mocking notes:
go to the beach and die,
go to the beach and drown,
a sweet and savory release-
we worship the quiet now
and the gentle weave of sienna sighs
that rasp against the creamy chest
in a dreamy reversal of portents.
back then there was haven in the hunting,
a dry hand that snatched the vernal bud
in a season ever greening in the blush
of your unexpected polka-dot giggles.
settled accounts can be misguided
when absent robes now bind anew
into the strings and clay of slavery.
it is a strange mask that hides adultery,
the uttering of a bovine charm
that sounds so much like heaven.