it's such a blue thrill to split the sky

i. the fair weather that grew into a silky redemption

our gate into the moss that day
was trilled in a perfect coloratura,
demising at will the bark target
that was grilled by rusty willows-

pink but secretly unmentioned:

the munificent weeping of impatiens
in a necessary press towards bloom
as to my blush became the saintly dew.

you might call it paradise,
I call it something more.

ii. every evolution has a modicum of unfortunate offshoots

then came a calligraphy shorn of boredom that never faded:

our foundry unspoiled and grave where carved tablets lounged
in a soothing sienna mud that reeked of bubbling, spiky abuse.

I was so high I could see the planets.

iii. it only sounds like growling when I mean it.

there was something barking a gray language of granite oppression,
a voice that dragged with sisal ropes across the canine floor
and tore into the seductive sway of elms and oaks and maples:

it had the darkening violence of an unexpected autumn storm-

I had only expected leaves.

iv. the circle is sometimes announced by the chimes of innocence

twigs were hurled until our nostrils reeked of blood-
times were so much different when the sun arced low
and a horrified pack of shills went monkey, totally:

for a split dream moment the falcon aspired
under gray flurries that huddled with the Valkyries-

to wait for the freeze is, often, to be frozen still:

I still yearn for that sky-blue pop.