Iseultian, all eyes,
I hand-deliver my only bouquet of Joe-pyes;
A cache of trump.
Their pink is mere cover-up for their comet-like
Quick-release of starlight.
Starlight masquerading as scent.
But those quick-fast galaxies,
Those prickly rose, those hyacinth, those hollyhocks
You breathe, gossamer of gossamer,
Hoverer of silk.
In your immediate silk,
I present to you my only jar of gooseberry wine;
A philosopherâ��s plot
Of danced-on berries, sweet-purple packed grapes,
Cruxed by time.
And blue lightning in a poetâ��s pot.
Such light that midnight blackness could not blot.
But these center-perfect galaxies,
These reeking orchids, these baobab buds, these pistil-perfect
Dragon lily seeds:
You breathe. I breathe.
Cycles cycle the spiral
Out the eyes looking in,
And so I give you my only crate of Pandoraâ��s wax;
Of stingy love;
A catacomb of chaotic romance; of amorously laced tulips,
Strangled by heartstrings.
And fast-spiraling crowâ��s wings;
Birds that flock, that murder the sky,
But for translucent galaxies,
For milk thistle, for star thistle, for the sow thistleâ��s tiny seeds
Delivered by the goldfinch,
For them, not I,
Are you, Iseultian, all eyes.
(inspired by â��of passion and seductive treesâ�� by Jay Hopler)
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