Rainstorm at year’s end

proclaiming nothing new

but touching the dark

with cool precision

and a wayward song

tapping a sloshing journey.

The blue star floats

through wintry dusk

licking the edges of shadow,

even the ones inside

as we cling to whatever bit of self

as contained within tiniest motes

of diamond-snow on branches,

faint greening along rivers, or

a whispering song into a great dark open.

The moon was a heavy drop of milk

in a creamy dark sky

and I sparkled, breaking free

of my cube, gloriously,

in a riot of color.

Of course, it was dark

so the moon made everything

glow like silver -or dead skin.

–

But oh, how the dance unfolded

beneath my feet! And my heart was full

of night, as night should always be:

forgiving, warm, dark, and open.

The apple stem hits my teeth

as I hungrily gnash at the flesh

and I imagine tasting other hands

that handled the apple before I did;

I didn’t bother washing it, just the

almost-acceptable polish-on-the-pants

technique, which leaves all the germs

yet a nice shiny denim glow.

I had the good sense to pull my hair back

or I’d be eating that too.

My curls taste a little like old showgirl,

with a dalliance of muppets.

My kisses taste of golden delicious

and chocolate. With a dash of mania.

I ate through to the seeds.

I look at the seeds, the possibilities,

the knowledge of fruit and skin

and all Eden held before we mucked it up.

I toss the whole core in the trash.

I unwrap another kiss.

Three statues, linked

arm in arm, sliding slowly

across a poppy landscape,

never minding the breeze.

Body parts crumble and fall off

but their cores are smiling.

.

Pacing learned from

letting go the need to race

or linger; just a meander

of souls taking in a rotting

landscape, loving the slide.