Thursday, July 06, 2006


wane: the period of the decrease of the moon's illuminated visible surface; a defective edge of a board caused by remaining bark or a beveled end.

your half moon fingers
graze the edge of
this porcelain case:

we are fabled to be
made of marble, but
a darker purity
lies in our mold.

the orchard lies
hidden, like some
forgotten menagerie.

glass apples,
glossed over
with an iridescent gaze:
the illusion of paradise.
a soft scent of apothecaries
the sweetest poisons
are coated over in
pitiful beauty.

your iron claw branch
reached through the strings,
plucked, arched, sanded down
these dimensions
to a single space existence.

flattened as if by stone,
the trees cower
beneath the weight of
their vial fruits -
the branches arch
unwillingly to the ground.

these fairytales,
your reasons compiling upon
these rubber grounds,
your finger to my heart, arching unwillingly,
an acute angle, spilling enlightenment
over these roads,
nearly gnarled,
forgone by craft.

i will meet you
in these lost corners
when our china faces
bend the light in
some twisting of,
some dancing with those unmasked, unspoken parables
tales of how we were,
how we could have been.