Exuvia

The morning sun, golden bubbling
honey trapped in oaks and ginkoes,
Puddles – those depressions of torn
sky, a woman’s last hat, and a man’s
only pair of gloves.  Wedding rings
in hellium gas, as our blue voices to
filial peaks and punches of old red
turn.  Soft hair that kept its shape
from the lover before.  Why friend,
I could shave it all, layer off layer,
as orb bared from orb, just Schichten,
tiny glimmers, Matris Geschichten.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s