at the watering hole, parallel features
on two faces paddling like the ante-diluvial
sun over mountains, unseen
through pages of fog, toward him. Hair lifted, carried
by some fortune, whether good or ill,
from his forehead and eyes, watering
and blue. Like sunflowers at noon stare,
unblinking as gargoyles atop cathedrals
majestic and dark, the faces on the water
sink, a diminuendo into a winter's morning,
before collapsing into shards of cloud,
milk tinged with wildflower honey.
Yet eyes, like mallow in the sand, look to heaven
without guile and spring forth, the taste
of salt on their parched lips, waiting for those
with wings to carry him away to the tundras
of immortality, words unremembered
since the first day of rain anno domini, dancing
like a bee for the flower, naked and indehiscent.
No comments:
Post a Comment