Turn the Soft Pages of the Quiet Book, Darling

Heart of the tree lit paper lanterns                arduous skin’s turning
fail,                palm wrenching slowly away.                The fuming
moon sloshed on to the bench.
Silk blanket ether                (to be like a cello for me!)
Underneath, warmth pinioning                breast grind and artery swoon.

Reluctance at the top of that mountain:                How can you want to climb down?
Do you not Captivity? You do not Captivity.                Loosed under the faucet my hair,
stench of violet and of rose, forget me…                against the bitch blaze of the bath;
that is, I mean, the white haze of my asp.                Accordion blood, accordion vein,
accordion heart reign,                diamond studs, ruby studentry.                Who wants the dandelion
to suck?                I have been subsisting on roots because no one has taught me about seeds.

(Flamingos are stabbed into the yard mid-winter and so I turn my head, and so I remember the mark of bark on cheek.)