Curled lips of orchids brush
blades of leaves cut through fall wind.
Deer on side-road still warm.
Ants crawl over crouching caterpillar
Flies taste mouse stretched over wet soil.
Silence turns you to meat.
The King is dead.
We scooped out his brain, his skin is dry.
Thousand years later his skin is crumbled to brown pigment.
His flesh paints smile on young women.
Long live the King.
Pomegranate explodes red under knife
Beetle shell crunched under napkin with grace
Dinner is ready, Bon Appetite.
Wind shatters shadows on water
Sunlight breaks as fish touches river’s skin.
It is fragile distance from me to your face on water-
No one knows the face Narcissus saw
Like private enigma of Medusa’s face.
and the flower only dances.
Dust on the ground clouds
Man run across dead Hyakintos
Looking for flower in blood.
All flesh is beautiful
for each is fortress of a perceiving world.
How can I swallow so that this water stays blood and not wine?
How can I hold so that you stay flesh and not bread?
The question lingers.
Void.
Air.
Dust.
Float between falls
cut of wind
blade of sun
Blink.
Echo
Echo
Echo
All flesh is beautiful
for each is a fortress of a perceiving world.
Beheaded meat remains silent.
I choose your flesh over your soul said Salome
Yet she chose the head not the body.
To my grave I walk, throughout my palms can I only hold dents and folds of embraces.
Six feet is the weight I am most used to.
Lightest parcel that I can carry and yet most fatal.
My body tattooed with your silhouette echoed back by land.
Your feet on my coffin is what I believe in.
The woman, a myth in oven.
Fire dance around her face
She stands tall like sunflower.
Blooming in moments, exit gravity
Her ash whispers “soul"
I only speak “here"
