Hydrangea Blues

Like a riot of careless children,
the hydrangeas return to my garden.
They love the violence of the wind,
they dare it to unfurl them from the stamen,
to become a sail of pure disarrangement.
Audacious,
they out-do the infinite hues of the sky,
they out-sing the clouds.
And they are beautiful and full of hungers,
and they have forgotten the agony
of last summer’s drought.
And I am in love with their petulant hearts.

Bouquet

There was love in the room,
full, opening to the bending rafters.
She was a bouquet that
spilled across the bed,
while a basket of fruit
exploded in my face.
There was laughter in the room,
it echoed like a cathedral
of white love spasms,
when the sky knelt in prayer,
and the world obeyed the moss.
Laughter in the blood,
swinging from body to body,
two bodies scooped into
the sun’s morning paws.
There was love in the room.
There were bouquets
of exploded hearts.

Venus

Sharp forest of oceanic pines,
a toxin that inflames giant seabirds
and drives them to the annihilating shores.

In the opening of the sea flower,
the awakening of the wounded whale
that cries beneath the sand,

and a pleasure that assaults a coast of disintegration,
a song of salt-invaded girls.

In the shell’s soft folds at your core,
the voice of the sea is unassailable.

What enters us overflows,
while the stones that vibrate in the surf
propel us toward the deeper ecstasy of loss.

We, the ones already marked for death,
find here the vessels of other lives.