Saturday, June 14, 2014

telos-poaching harpies

There is a fruit bowl on the table,
made of beaten rose gold,
it's filled with onions and their skins,
newly peeled off from their succulent 
bodies whose aromas penetrate
everything
they weave their way into her
silver curls,
the disneyfication of the university
mulling underneath her sunburnt skull.


Last night, the sounds of the wedding poured out of the high arched windows, 
the music drowned out by the sounds of laughter, 
and the laughter drowned out by the brilliant gold 
light that washed the dark treetops in brightness, 
to no avail. 
The dark green trees cracked the flood of golden light, 
as their labyrinthine limbs crept up towards the moon.
The pale orb of the full moon 
was listlessly floating through the sky 
on a bed of wispy cirrocumulus clouds.
It caught the breath that hung in my mouth and 
suspended it in front of my lips in the air.

There is something so strange and wonderful 
in the mud of earth beneath your feet,
dense, damp, packed down tight 
as myriad footprints are carved into the soil.
And above you, the treetops are kissed 
with the gold of the morning sun.

At sunrise, the golden hour is fresh, new, 
sweet as the first strawberries of summer.
The morning is filled with goodness; 
how could anything evil be stirring before breakfast?
The golden hour before sunset is different: 
it is sadder, it is older, it is wiser.
The music of the day has suffered 
some discordance. 
But Golden Hour of Sunset wraps up all these wounds 
into the melodious light that 
heralds the slumber of the sun.

As I run through the treetops, 
the first golden hour of the day 
slanting through the trees,
my breath beats fast along with 
my pounding heart.
The golden sunbeams wash the pale virgin leaves, 
but their gilding slides right off--
the leaves, free of the weight of gold,
wet with dew, dance in time to the 
song of the robins carried by the morning breeze
The music of the violins soars up to the treetops, 
with each swell of the music, 
it rises.

The violin is an uncanny instrument, 
made by creatures confined to earth 
in order to gain the heights that 
only the songs of birds 
can reach.



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