Cento of Metaflora

(Madeleine) 

Moments scud in the blueness

 

This early frost on the word

 

What is it with a woman

 

But within the moment of my eye

 

The night is but a tympanum

 

As the moment and its meaning

 

I look but do not see

 

It soothes me with a soft grey hum

 

A hand of something other

 

On that small desk in my mind

 

I cannot see, I do not know

 

To slit the coat of dark

 

Lips pressed against my lips

 

On a day like any other

 

Of his lover’s finger’s making

 

And the stream of morning dreams

 

In thick rice snow

 

Perhaps I could change places?

 

And you wander in the season

 

But the early frost of words is

 

Not that you would ever know

 

It’s when I move, we move apart

 

The hissing of summer lawns, and

 

Almost kissed the very floor

 

It’s odd that when you wake up

 

Someone always turns them off