Yellow Sweater

My soul is depreciating. I folded myself into complex origami, gothic arches and bowties and little paper snowflakes, but the creases are starting to tear. 

A tree has blood, thick blood that fills its cold fractals with slow warmth. We watch the rain fall. And tenderly, I brush the water from my eyes. 

There is a demiurge living in my belly. 
I giggle until spring violates the Earth's cold corpse. 
The brash moon waits for us to curl our eyelashes and unfurl our hips.
I flamenco with a woman in my throat. 

I walk downhill, through the rain and towards the sea. 

I could feel the burning contrast of continuance, the delicate flock-like dance of a hundred thousand moments distilled into a single impression that shifted with the passage of time and glowed with the curves and subtle vestiges of its previous shap

It’s past midnight. 

The rain drips, 
resigned to the passing moon. 

An ancient hymnal
of old stone 
and old stars, 
plays in my ears. 

Lamp light 
And