Cento of Metaflora


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