My kiss was a pomegranate,
deep and open;
your lips were a paper
rose.
The backdrop, a snowy field.
My hands were chunks of iron
for anvils;
your body was the sunset
of a ringing church bell.
The backdrop, a snowy field.
In the perforated
blue skull
my repeated “I love you”
formed stalactites.
The backdrop, a snowy field.
The dreams of my childhood
were covered with mold,
and my spirally twisted grief
drilled through the moon.
The backdrop, a snowy field.
Now, in all seriousness, I train,
in a school of advanced horsemanship,
my love and my dreams
(little eyeless horses).
And the backdrop is a snowy field.