monolithic misplacement

She would ask me
’Do you ever feel that Earth
is just not the place for you?’
She was watering and arranging
the wildflowers I’d picked –
the stringy-yellows
modest-whites that strain their necks
for the light

I put my redwinter hands against her neck
cooly soothing her hot head; I said
‘Hunny, we haven’t seen nuthin’ yet,
just wait till we’re dead
to see. That’s the place for me.
Flowers are the colors of the cosmos you know
and your lips are elusive as ancient hieroglyphics;
my heart is a Sphinx on Mars –
me and you, we don’t belong in clothing or cars
we were meant to live
in a song. Hunny,

you’re mystical as a monolith and I am
impossible as time. Those wildflowers
bloom your eyelids like orchids
or violent violets: they are but water
dreams and myth. Hunny,
we were born
on gold-pointed tips of pyramids’

She left the vase in a silhouette
of sunlight
and turned to the sky, through
reflections of glass and inconceivable pasts –
She began to cry,
and our galaxy couldn’t hold back a gasp

’Why can’t the stars speak
when we meet in prayer
and sacred Seeings?
Oh, I do not know
where I am, and only
in a lucid wormhole-trance
can I find my soul free
to cry   to dance   to breathe  and fly.’

I kissed her cheek and
ate her grace; I was sure
but sorry that she belonged in
space: Earth was just an
elusive terrain to drive her insane,
a fiery silk or dripping lace
of a girl with flowers who
cannot find her face.


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