Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. "This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names? It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. I feel the heave, the pull not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.-door locked. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown.
night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. If Her Majesty is captured.you've lost the very best! Yet if not careful, even she can be taken!
She rules! Nearly limitless, so watch out! Lastly, the lovely, noble Queen, not forsaken! They make their way to advance from their nooks Like concrete castles, with their straight-line tactics, In L - shaped ways, they gallop into battle Moving this way.and that way.behind or ahead The Bishops, like royal clergy in robes of redĭiagonal in direction, they stride and they glide Like helpless turtles, they inch forward on Lucky to make it across to promote their rank Manning the front row are the peons, the pawns The other pieces.what will be their fate? His lady has to step in to defend her man
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