Tangerine Sin – A Poem

I begin. Blue
single translucent.
Marginal drifts coalesce. Over
time.

Speak. Don’t speak
our tangerine sin
obsession.

Church rots from the
inside. Leaves shadowing
failed stone on the hill. Overgrown.
Faceless.

Summer touches your
lips. Revealed
under lunar paper parasols.

Weighted nature. A pocketed
version
of the universe
we dropped
into the lilac. A name. Bruised.
Falls in upon itself.

Soft anger erupts. Swirling.
Vacant beyond your reach.

Our lives sheltered in
green. Aged. Bend
under the wind.

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A Canticle of Low Origin – A Poem

A mystery.
Torn into opposing directions.

The feel of her smile.
The knife blade not quite
sharp enough.
Clippings which
provide a more detailed
account.

How stripped bare her humanity
spilled into rivulets
under the gathered clouds reflecting a red sun
purple.
Geese flew in the sky as
the forest darkened.

Reports say that spring is now in
season.
That love has been distilled.
There is so little for concern.

I mark how her elbow bends
in the last of autumn’s
fallen leaves
and hum a canticle of low origin.