o magnum mysterium:
trapped by the literality
of a dumbass metaphor, i
ride
the backroads
of lafayette.
the world is velvet and blue
and the road is as if a feeling--
the road is as if a feeling--
and the curve of the wheel is a thought mirrored
in the action of the car.
the moon is a slice of white glass
counterdistinct to the point it might draw blood
the stars are white and the sky is black
the time is autumn
the flavor of the air is autumnal
autumn days have lovely thick light
and blue shadows, and autumn nights
are shadow piled upon shadow.
o rose in your pale mystery
your lustrous freshness leeched from you perhaps
yet not not ever the pale twilight colors of your drying
and the smell like raisins
o rose in your pale state
you wait for your lover to take you yet