Wednesday, 3 November 2010

The Ukelele and the Apple Tree

Juicy knotted antlers curl from his forehead,
Ruffling his black entities and blowing them
Away with autumn leaves.
So there we where amongst the trees, playing ukuleles.

The silvery bellows escaping, swimming
Through tender oceanic hues. A kerfuffle
Of lacy fire in a brick box.
Sight held blind and captive for a moment, like martyr-vision.

Saint Thomas hung upon the tree listening
So carefully to fainting falls of sacrificing stars.
Capsuled in a wooden box,
Wrapped up in string and red paint from my lips, cold recollections.

Back in the tent with a fractured thumb or
forsaken fingers, lost without a compass true.
That's my hip,
Skin and bones, pawed at my petticoat in a hurried haze, laid

Down on the luscious green carpet. Back to God
Staring at a blank pallet, ours to create or destroy.
Because despite my heartfelt fists
If it is not known, it no longer exists.

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