Dancing In Dreams Past Pale Trees, Surface The Butterflies

"Debussy is the sea." She said, in the voice of his favorite watercolor (if it had a voice), her make-up, all Krishna hues. The bottom of her T- shirt, tied up, her stomach full baroque of VENUS DOES NOIR, the poems on her skin -- and suddenly the garden-party turned into -- just the shadows of people ~ their conversations un-important and far away. Her sister took a picture of them. Years later, he found the photo and was struck by the color of her hair -- like the color of earth, twined together in rain ~ her eyes, the color of golden shores, circled with sky , as the dawn behind them, appeared to shift against the trees. ~ Shoegaze, he thought. Not the music but the actual sandals she wore. Just a boat-girl nonchalantly sharing her herb as his inner voice screamed, turn around, and GO! LEAVE! NOW! But he stood frozen, a blooming loon, in some, weird, outside, green-wax museum. Her eyes strummed the lines tied around him < --- a small salamander trapped in her magnificent stare. ~ How he had loved the sleepy simplicity of her hipless skirt's silk whisper / pausing / to invite knees / living legs / feet stuck in those ridiculous sandals. Ferocious, the bleeding edges. The want. The hidden hurt. ~ And Later, Smoking More Fat Numbers In A Motel Room: her hair her kiss the deep trigger of all that was / corners falling / away / always-butterflies / needles / on go / hold the fatality. Like a rocky path, she trampled definition; a trail floating as the corridor stumbled. ~ We Were. As Windows gathered, packaged, and sold our fears. Yes! I remember: the pinot. kisses. depth. teeth. then. sour. tongues. drew. away. We became the monsters. The head in the swamp, the body of all rivers, in a Somebody World. And in a city, built on cracks - we coded the castle out, but kept the royal map, tattered and shopworn as angel trivia.