my Thou is the bloom of my mouth|my rib is afloat in fen

I blooming ever more gravely

blooms before you

so the furrow of origin

turns under    plumes

a bride  when the bluffs are plucked 

is pulled from the rib of man’s side

|

I am that bird

I’m drawn from your rib

your side is a flung wide ridge

|

where is origin?  where heat

or blade or ruse of exaggeration?

|

my Thou is the dithering of ridges flung open

my Thou is a stasis of incomprehensible approach

my Thou is for whom the talus ascends

|

dusking sheets loom over a pastel cliff

cactus    columbine   scree   in a flourish

one could almost loose a life

my Thou is a tender uproot

|

when the buttes are lifting up

and the field of origins slips under

come Thou

|

come Bride

or {come} bird waters

or just flay it out

|

my rib is afloat in fen

|

my Thou you’re the bloom of my mouth