Tulips once fushia are red in the interior
of wailing and dust – the spice of persimmon on tongue,
its burnt orangeness, sweet aftertaste like young kisses – reflected
scent of candles, slipping light on wood – god found
in the chaos drumming – holy saxophone singing to me
everything I ever wanted to know, needed to hear, all this
while the
drip, drip, dripping of the faucet leaks in time |
