5_trope

In the dream, I love no one.

A green man I will to marry

leans in for fruit. Doves file

in heading south toward red

clocks & block entrance

home. Near the tussle of

wings, oxygen, sorocco.

I taste hot-blue labels as

indigo green-winter light.

Envelopes folded sealed

for a greaterwhite stormday.

Light hangs on; I wilt as a

hotdream drafts on without

a tramp of lavender in a sky.

No one hopes. We angle

cold orange pekoe tea;

it isn’t evening. For now,

we aren’t close to even. –

Onto a new street,

all doors hold steel,

fade of melted glass,

faces, children. A dress

shop has the red smear

across the door—smudge

of a child’s hand print

into an adult one.

I want to go. Take me

home where I can be

warned . At the church,

I am aiding a dress

to adhere to my body;

staples enter in weaves.

Fortress, lace all its

discriminating factors blush

red cool from my body.

My hair is woven into five

fraying knots; a woman on

my right notes how lovely

I look caught. A heart-glass

ring on my left hand;

a diamond sea no one keeps.

“Your hands are mine,” says

the woman flocked in gray

smocks–holes of mice run

in to devour pieces.

She keeps a flood watch near

a long chief sea

of pullulating goats.

Rustic \dirt inside of her

palms. I do not marry;

I do not wilt.

No one eats.

–

No one comes. I kneel

from branch to trunk

gathering purple ash,

white ore, gliss.

Pipe the tune. Soon

the burning of

elements will hide

our ways.

–

In the first draft of one dream,

there are merchants—the trace

of ships wilt into horizon

toward shoreline. No mountains

hide behind them; orange leafed

trees with the color of fire blaze

to the left. I hold light look

toward a horizon

that never speaks.

–

Even the boatmen know never

go promenading in ferry weather—

get goods now go on into night

to higher water or weaker boats.

No one should wait here at night.

New boats come fresh. Green

out of a mist they groan;

on they come, near—

they beach. We must

prepare a way. Father

builds houses in the trees—

to fly arrows fire shots, light

into warned evening woods.

Men exit the boats

look for women

to hide for a night.

–

Here is where I entreat a man whom later

I could marry/break into bounds.

Someone traps the trapper of trees,

I am stolen, dragged into forest,

hunted through nightsky.

I hold.

–

I hold the way I hide when hunting fruit—

use long limbs, find a sturdy trail in a mid-

night sky. As watchers wail laughter, all

mocking up into air where ear leaf acacias

hold and hide me. I don’t fall.

I don’t drip a leaf near their ears.

No one can find the tree wharf,

where we hide our boats in the sky.

–

Then, a man comes.

A kind man reaches

for me from another

tree—he will keep the night with me.

We hold. As the morning rises, no one

comes. Ships gone from sun’s passage

meet land move on.

The man sleeping near me breaths/rests.

Shadows seem to know;

they fold over from trees.

I hold on to morning await

a passage back to my home

hope for my father.

No one comes

to make an offer to the sea.

All voices salvage

their dreams.

We gather near shore as sun catches

a fight of stars. Gilded beds abutted

on sand hold our loved ones,

wrapped in bressingham blue hosta,

open tops sewn elegantly shut

by the flower weavers. Then all

cast to sea carry behind orange/light

viking poms weave arms of green

toward us. Waiting holding there.

Wanting to wake sooner than light

can ride a star, we begin forgiveness calm. No one can take what isn’t left behind.

In time, when boats come, we will be ready.

None will be found lost. Father leaves

in a boat of birch covered in elder flowers

adrift on blue light— waves into a horrible/

horizon of dreams.

–

The next forest brings wet blooms;

boats offer no shelter cannot be

two sun-days away. Shelters made

by five-leafed clovers, burrows

dug deep beneath wet shore-lines

bait as wet flowers denature select

yellow from viridian. We await

a new coming from the boatmen.

Some will trap themselves inside

a shore, eat a sea into exhaustion.

Some will flee leap all arrows

until none scratch back to the sea.

We hold rustic dirt inside our palms

pursue old revenants near the sea.

We hold rustic dirt, hide our psalms,

pray reverently for ice storms.

Our dream comes as many are lost.

My father holds a whitehorn branch

and smiles at me from the brume.

A dove flies in heading south

as we drink blood orange

until light no longer haunts.

I do not wilt. Now, we are even.

–

No one comes to salvage the dream.

All around voices rest on the water.

–

More boatmen will come. All who know

will find the name: the sea.

Mapped men go into the sea.

Those who cannot return whole, wait

for others who will live among mist.

–

A cloud moves itself into old eyes

(watchers roam sounds) as lost as

a sapphire falling into the rage.

The sea keeps many. No one

keeps the sea.