I am busy deciphering your
blood, a language of
wild rose gardens; of laughing
sunflowers, mad ones like
Van Gogh’s; of pink water
lilies, sprawling in their
luxurious vines, seducing the
sun’s obsessive gaze.
I find myself here, alone at your
edges, always at the edge; the
clamour of bird-songs scattering from
gunshots into your un-answering fields.
But the deep center of my body is
something outside of me calling to you,
more certain than me
striding into your pain.
Older than both of us, it
closes in like a thousand burning
nights, filling your cheeks with its
command: break him.