"…only a wall of bad dreams separates me from the dead."
~Federico Garcia Lorca
Shape without form
bones hollow tubes
delicious conduits for melons of yesterday's light
emptied, love that drips
from fingertips hung over the side
of a dolphin's drifting bed
silver drops of mercury
up my face
hung dangling to the sky,
a root that reaches eyeless
toward a cavity drowned in moons.
My heart still
louder than the crocodile in the ivy
clicking castanet teeth in sambas to
a deaf rose
in the greenhouse of dust and wine.
Shape without form,
a dream so badly made
it's no different than waking.
Many of these nights
I dream the greenhouse
bench-full of musky geraniums,
doubled lilies, spreadfinger poinsettia stars,
clay pots of green bay, mimosa, impossible olive
arrayed in some sequence that
with its lack of gold arab tumbleweeds,
its rote root and utterly unpredictable
prime free knowing,
counting up to its number
of green secret selves.
I pass through the sleepless emerald-lidded city
a tumultuous order
going bench to bench in the humid jade drip,
pressed to compound the hours left to me,
make cuttings of minutes,
grow them on, to let myself become
the décor I tend and sell
and finally know
the earth's sweet mouth
tumbling unpollinated silk flowers
to bright oblivion
in her kiss.
~New Years Eve, 2012
Images: Header: Greenhouse @ Noordwijk, by wot nxt on flick'r
Shared under a Creative Commons license
Footer: Geranium, by Odilon Redon
Public Domain via wikipaintings.org