emeralds and rubies

Emeralds and rubies

 

A million, million times to fail and then

to tickle the sleeping dragon’s tail

porcelina of the ocean’s wide, I know

someday you’ll take me with you

wanting though your waning tide and

see me to the other side, but no

I already know this much

no, not tonight

 

but stay a while longer, why not

linger like a lover who fondly spies

unblinking through her emerald eyes, neither judging nor seeking,

sustaining fission. attentions focus, so circumspect

forging a tungsten tide upon your dull and slumbering

infinite shore, come forward and fall back again

into your sleeping ruby-demon core

 

can you feel it in your bones, does the

dragon dance and tickle, does the fire

pierce your skin and slip your veil

a million times before to fail

then in an instant become your emerald depths

shot through and dissected by the knowing

 

porcelina of the ocean’s wide, I know

someday you’ll take me with you

through your waxing tide and

see me to the other side

A million, million times to fail and then

A tickle of the sleeping dragon’s tail

or was it, but for a moment’s slip of the hand

neutrons ignite the air and paint the night-time sky

before everything quietly falls away

almost like it was before

no bud left behind

No bud left behind

– george stein

 

Maybe the Navigation was doomed from the start

It wasn’t as if there was an absence of signs

But things can always be taken two, three, or more ways

And then come the subtexts and permutations

 

Memory will inevitably smooth and polish

Things said and unsaid at the last supper

But there was a photo taken by the server

Among the many regrettable things people must do these days to earn a tip.

 

Now everything they touched and

Everything they fucked up, in their way

Will elicit waves that span the distance, pass

And come back again to spite

 

Some will surmise it was impetuous

Some will observe that it was avoidable

And most people won’t really care at all

Some of them will be right

edge

 

Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

 

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