Des Fleurs

The Seraphim moon-drip-tears
dreaming fingers in the quiet flowers
vapor, trailed viols,
dry white sliding slabs of blue corollas;
the figment of a snowflake kiss.
Magnetic captivates egg-sac
cleverly, intoxicated perfume droops
evenly without regret, but disappointment. Negative
space ellipses—the aorta of sleep, gathered.
Now wander in the eye of an ancient pavement
when hair with sunshine in the street is
an evening, and your laughing appeared
void of thought as a boat, the fairy-clarity’s hat—
that at once the horizon’s beautiful mountain peaks
coil-in, always leaving a trail of its sleeping hands
snow-closing round the fragrant summer bouquet of stars

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