seasonal threats

dried white roses, mint, blood and chalk i watch melting in the rain all taste the same on a shade tumeric brick lips. and i know we enter winter. though elsewhere spring arrives in her soft-celled self. time grinds my scapulae together as i try to hold my clavicles straight lest they clap book-like and sink into my breast together. but forsoothe forsythia. yellow paper you over riveting eyes and i shall love you, marrows having greened profoundly. clarity. beeswax. antagonism. on a flat wet stone i want to break all your fingers. i want to kiss their colors as they heal.
---
deep deep frigidity tremors through me. i listen for the sound of my eyelashes on my cheekbones. there. so soft. still alive. touching everything. sheets, glass, lonely earring in the corner of a masque's mouth, the masque, ribbons, my hair, heels, a spoon, neck, the peony paper, butterfly, velvet rose, plastic mermaid from a shampoo bottle, hot wax- stop there. peel the prints off and set them back toward the flame. there is a wanderlust in me. i want to live anonymously on temporary loves and travel until there is no psychological homelessness. i want our bodies to crumble into lavender, to keep living in the fields. maybe on some days the farmer sucks an orange and throws us the rinds or a girl on bicycle nearly faints at our redolence. we are strong forever. plowed under and re-grown.