At Twilight

At twilight
When others leave the boulder coves
Dangling their catch
Beside the easy wake
I make my way
Down the rough path
The softest wind
Brushes through the valley
Pleating the glass lake
Around me.

This time
I am content in silence.

It is essential
To close
The skirted history
Of the leveled pair.
A Maiden knot
Clutching
Edges
Creped into
Calculating
Bosom friends
Is a sad breakfast topping.

Musty depths
Dare the Cousin Wind
Stacked and rigid
To carry
The magnification.

I know what it is
To be
Stretched in faith
To balance oneself
While standing in pools
Of Mother’s blood
Followed by
The sudden sleeping suit of Daddy
Bespoke
The inimitable
Walk
Of the cross
With nowhere left to go
Bewildered
The little rose
Is a scarf of fragility
A mosaic
Of frequency
The channel
Ascending
The platform
Of splendor
Wonder ruled
And app-
rehensive.

I know what it is
To be
Stressed about provision
To be
Without an answer
Of how
Best to reconcile within
The double-faced
Talk of harpies
While standing daintily
In frilly socks
Upon a man hole to the underworld
Tap dancing
Through
Spotted & striped,
Grain & tea,
Love & gemstone
Beaming to have arrived
While internally
Enfolded in a shrug
With one part present
The other
Left standing in rain
Infinitely landing
Possible as pigeons
Close enough to touch
The monogram
Before it turns
To blue.

Removed
Stunned on the shore
Driftwood
With a stone prepared necklace
Perpetrators
With hands in their pockets
Backed against the tomb
Safe as an ostrich nest
In a supple blood money field
Filled with jackals.
The dunes
Are sleeves that cover my hands
With rust
No more.

There is an awakening.
I have nothing
But a calm
Breath of imprint
Veiled,
Encircled,
Stirred.
I am
Ready to receive
My portion
Of scent
And join
The seamed
Chime
Of petite movement
Together
With radiant,
Scalloped hills
Bearing
A blanket of indigenous
Crumble
To common ground
Guides present
Intricate and
Square-footed.
The Comforters
Are frothy winged
Their wrap,
Extending from the contemplation
Of the beloved King,
Is cognac
To a faithful heart.
I am reminded
Matthew’s edict
Buckled the bold
Netted
A bomb
In the trenches
Looking for a coyote
And finding none
Instead, only a
Golden,
Ferocious angel
Strapped with a mantle
Detached,
Vivid,
Paned,
To bring the church within
And toggle fiery antheriums
Into the black cloud.

There is a notion
Immersed with flourishes
Of risk:
Wear
The Passion
Tangled
In the basin of the senses.

gjh.

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