Lisolette-Anwe

Not that the ambulance men look like white vultures, but I can see them stooping over the roadkill that they peck at with needles and monitor leads, not that it'll do any good because I can see its eyes bleed every time they pump what's left of its ribcage, not from hope but procedure. I wave through the black van; they lift it on, shrug, "Not much left there, I'm afraid." They cried not.

She stands rooted; a wild tower grazing the translucent shroud at her hip.Her color is purple, passionate for the flower that roots itself in the rock.Her heart is that calm before the storm - steady, brash.Her taste is of suckles born of Summer, her smell an erotic incense to the wind.Her home is a split amid wayward wisps during the golden tide -              and she knows              She outshines the stars,              even to eyes of fire.

                                 A                             sunset                        or two could                 bring coming days            slowly around, season      by season, and will pause    on Autumn, watching a myriad of leaves drift softly so, coloring   the grass   below   our feet

*crowd of crows mourn on what fails to be tomorrow when the sun falls forever.*

ii.     we carved animals      from ivory castles      floating in the sun.  we were the doting spring mayflies twisting upon meadows,           wreathing lilies between           toes, breathing --iii.between the sheets of golden chaff, she whispered,   “let’s dance in the rain                           on the cobblestone streets                           before the singing rosebud                           mutes her swollen gown.’                           :      past the shivering         moon we snuck with shadows tucked into dreams.  we were        waltzing toy soldiers,        our peace-broken holsters        licking the finger-drawn...

A Contract of Initials weaved we, as children, happily lost—in forests of insouciance eclipsing neither’s light, casting no shadow; (the shells of our previous lives,         gladly trampled underfoot) as she and I marked our intentions (of do not disturb desire)         upon trunks of every palm.the laughter was to be infinite,         was it not?—between the delicate clutches of tense (the afterwards         rapture); our         gasping hearts granting summer no leave, as we let slip the bonds         of our decadent desperations.but as always, dreams give way to realities; grandeur retreats, swiftly— measured returns to our other selve...

Dandelions our summer fantasy on the isles; (with heavy heat from an Omnipresent sun)that left snatches of laughter ringing in our ears, and emboldened our hearts— now resides in tactile memory;—held fast by gentle determination to never forget that sweet lesson learned ‘neath stars and sun, amid dandelions that tickled my thighs;—to stop needing an excuse to run, and take pleasure of wind in my hair

a promontory; moonlight’s downy glow reveals silhouettes entwined

Chicago—Sleeping In a tremulous yawn to rouse her trees, the city awakens;hush of night wanly surrenders to serenades ... a lark’s swelling chatter; —weather predictinglegions of Early Risers greet the morning sober with dreams of sleep; —schedules keeping, (those poor souls)school-children, ambling in their sweet daze, hopeful of Nature’s favor ask; does it snow? does it rain?the sounds of progress invade my urban hamlet and hollow, hasten a pulse, low and increasingfrom the window I consider your slumber, your bliss; passing contented, the weightless moments in this idle break of daysilent, I draw the silken veil against morning’s wideni...

wings of finite beat; does a butterfly live on knowing its ending?