Of the height and heroism of love,
Antique, bitter-lipped thoughts creak
Waiting for Jesus, in his bandaged feet,
To rise in His due season
And fiddling with flashlights in the frost,
We follow frenzied crow tracks
And swap two oranges with diamond seeds,
Grown brave in the common air
While sweetened by midnight mint,
For a red hot jar of wine-soaked crickets
With twelve apostles sharing one hemp glove.
Their crystal-lidded eyes sneak
Ironed looks, as smooth as nature is discrete,
And brimming with sprightly treason,
Pluck her shriveled leaves with lashes crossed
So through rotten porch cracks
In the dainty, onionskin dawn, she bleeds
Candied apples from a rocking chair
And paints, with cinnamon tint,
Tropical sunsets on my white fence pickets,
As I contemplate why wisps of clouds above
Of smoky kerosene lamps reek.
Her peals of hand-me-down laughter meet
My price of sleep and reason
Far off in the bowels of our Heaven tossed
Like snowballs at tin shacks,
And cozily, in our wraparounds and misdeeds,
We practice charity and solitaire
As dark ravines shrewdly hint
Of a conscious-stricken universe in the thickets,
Flaunting blue pendulums that casually swing
With the improbability of the existence of anything.

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