Peaches

Letting the light in, in the fast lane. Earth revolving around the sun. With every breath that leaves my body I am chained to the sea. I am sporting my erstwhile clarion call, full of zing. Shining on the wood. Touching wood when I hear bad news. I sharpen the knife on the long hoot, the harpoon through the lament. The feeling of living with no methodical plan couldn't get anymore intense. I hold onto railings. Summoning spirits with cinnamon. On the run, it was fun while it lasted. Director of courtship. Speaking a universal language. Timeless. Esoteric. Never slowing on a joyride but immersed in ataraxy. I pick up the rhythm, ravenous for a taste. I follow the winds, the bend of the willow, the gothic revival, into the dome of pleasure, as if I am Absalom on the primrose path, on the tableland of miracles, on hot ground, spilling the ins and outs, on the divan where men told me allegories and each one left a gash, where the wax of the Thyrus melted and I echoed in a labyrinth. Lacklustre on a lonely island.

Heading into a spring by the fountain, by the glistening quartz. I am the arm of the river, my true self in remote areas. In arid valleys. I disappear in a flash. Forbearing with my captor. Packing my weeks for summers. All the apples in the world, all the succulent peaches. We cheer for apostates, for runaway slaves. We lick the raspberry jam and the frosting of the Madeira, and we make the silver cuts with the Sabatier. We are lovers, making love not making war. The world is at our fingers, and we're close enough we can reach in and feel the silence. At the dewpoint we're ice crystals. The clouds hang low for us, they're reminders of what we overcame. I look at them with sincere eyes. I look at the ocean spray of words in the network. Two days in a row the windows have steamed up. Inside my stomach there's a datum, a decoy. Surrounded by thorny shrubs. I have seen it with my eyes, my sincere eyes. Great gills of the mushroom. Healing for two winters. I used to dwell on the fly in the ointment, but now I have peaches. There's no reason for lying on a damp hillock. I see the beauty in winter, the January mist, the still quietness. Before it was so dark I couldn't see, so foggy and white I couldn't make out a thing but the silhouette of black trees. Now the lights lead me. I find myself nowhere with my visions. Down a dead end, by the edge of lake water.