Nausea at Moon-rise, Re-Birth at Dawn

During the brief run from a spinning light
to the brass flashed plate of a keyhole tide,
you could feel the tunnels of fictions shrink
and freeze the geologic laws that govern stone:

black veiny marble with frothy pearls of clot
bled in gothic red on the funnel's twisty script.

Did I mention the ticking palpitations,
spiking along the cold wrought fence
with odd aspic medallions of even hearts?

Yes, it was a pocked marked sweaty frolic
that fashioned an image in the curl of your locks,
pursued though we were through the cycling spin
by moon kissed slurping through the lesser ferns:

we were feeling that fear that distracts from fear
if only for a fleeting clock of silvery breath.

I am speechless and yet I speak,
guileless and yet I beguile,
thoughtless and yet I think:

man, that is really boring-
one of the many days I often die,
in that place before the dawn.

The pin-prick mantissa of the visible kiss,
raised only a fraction of what was possible:

an orange blossom that unfolded in a bowl of broth
and slowly spun the hairy prayers of multiple birth.

Then, we ran into the gray creped mansion-
the laconic one slurped yellow bile,
eyes down in a library of musty footnotes
and dusty bindings muted in velvet rays
while the clever one spun of glee from fusty skeins
a dramatic green gift for the loquaciously visored.

Whether it was the ruby ink or emerald glass
we could not tell in the pre-dawn light,
trading the silver breath of tomorrow
for the baffling tongue of acid now.

wait a minute,
wait a minute,
wait a minute-
the sun's about to rise

Perhaps there was no illumination,
but there was a cirrus palate
that almost licked the sky.