Aphelion

From here life sets the lie

Pours the wounds into pestle  

As sparks must mortify the scar

The start of it calling from farthest limb

Listless as bend to leaves

Spiraling down gray cloudless firmament

A passage perhaps

A promise over wine,

Her teeth into apricot,

And life, where thoughts drape enough to rattle cold stones

Enough to bulge and ache in milky devastation 

Gathering groans and disbelief,

To stretch or yawn inside our half-dream

Wintering through long last calling voices

And loam that weeps with muddled hands euphoric

From here

The trees summon  

And again, each leaf from summer’s vanity knows nourishment

Knows limits toward canopy are constant

The madness more entwined

Where vines swindle and die

 

Here, our spells in view of demons shy 

Storms, like heaven within await-

Here, illusions are filled with fountains, 

Veiled constellations with sight

Then I believe

I feel God and Song or perhaps the faith of This….

Perhaps the Faith of us,

Spinning, all from here.