with a love that has shed its leaves,
and let stolen nights rise again
from the scarred sidewalk under my
grilled chocolate window.
From the same fantasy
I could
Picture rainwater as it melts down the alleyway.
I’d leave the night to occupy a lost road
winding
out of a wilderness of clouds,
that
a lighted Christmas candle
may
overcome
the veiled sky for other occupants of heaven.
It is
in a flower field.
I would be the gentle tune
that rises from smokestacks and fills the rain forests
to the last uninhabited nest.
Love lurks somewhere,
I say to the wild painting hung upside-down on
a friend’s numb soul,
and it responds with steep hillsides, murky waters,
and deep violet from a foreign flower.
Also, love steps in without any motion
to keep aware,
and violet
makes
me
dream
in
reverse.
