Kettle

By the bedside,
a porcelain white kettle -
she settles a deadness,
commonplace -
the usual brewing within her,
unusually.

Gift

The untended garden,
an unintended garden -
sentiment on mismatched sheets,
clipped together.
Ardour in plainness;
I leave you
my outgrowth -
all of it.

This that bloomed about me,
without me -
this feather that still grows a fan;
the bout
is all yours,
yours, yours.

Half a violin; the black key
that flows -
the accidental colour
that is always getting deeper -
I leave you lucid blood
and a swinging door...
...to churn into love
that which is more
than love.

Heartless?

She who laughs, a shattering glass,
she who walks, drunk to the core -
nimble fairy, sips from the sky;
slips her lips onto its wanton core.

Drops her hands on a purple road;
loses her feet to the night.
The heart she carries in her eyes
and then weeps with all her might.

Although

I see that the string has been pulled
and I see that you're caught in the frenzy -
you're trying to lull the music into sleep.
I see that you're fluting a purple tune
to this chord that still vibrates
and vibrates, red.

The guitar was a gun
and the trigger done;
I see,
I see that the string has been pulled.

I long to kiss your lips
and empty you of this music.

Although I sing to you at times,
I do not make The Confession.
I only wish you'd see
the concession I made
when you didn't touch me.