Study in Archaic Colors: Pronoun Troubles
Or
A Trace of Sunlight
On Worn Brass in a Handmade Key
A Trace of Sunlight
On Worn Brass in a Handmade Key
— for Sunčana Rain Pavlić
if in one turn tumblers go on around you dreams douse themselves in rubia tinctoria & move thru walls both eyes wink & bend nickel pins in you if heat from what’s left unlocked all night softens ripe fruit in the dark if an open wrist falls into a bed of cochineal shells & the sky’s a bucket in an empty well if an arc from the green stem whets the blade wait for me with your eyes cut at the clean edge of us a nose above the inaudible pull of the pigment pool there are bodies above & below let the hallway fringe itself in chalk & waver thru cracks in its plaster hands let what follows a fugitive moon search the violet lake we left nailed to the wall here’s wax to protect the Vitruvian red here’s a pure hour of your hair brushed along the uncertain condition of the floor walk on me lie on me & you can feel it give I’m grain by grain & you’re light from a clean dime that spins in a third body of copper air we’re a window left open in a storm on the skin we move against each other & leave curves in narrow marble ways that sharpen the wind we let in veins of starlight that turn blood into soft metal & bring on a scent of animals that bloom in us bright as antimony ground into lead with a dash of salt from the sea thrown to the wall by a candle there’s a shadow of huge teeth from this loop of string there’s this keyhole’s worth of chrome you left in my ear a pocket full of loose change on the table & a thumb in the pastel of an arched back when cymbals touch cinnabar in the Villa of the Mysteries & the puff-push of your voice on my face turns indigo in my eye from nude green into a moth of breath burning blue the sky swings its empty wooden shadow over the table a bucket full of shade over a heaped plate of hearts on the half shell that night I dreamt I was a piece of ash swept up by a fire in the high scrub of a desert night flame from a frozen shot of vodka I wake up late & alone in a blind pool on sun-crushed sheets the dream’s gone into the eyes of another woman she’s five tomorrow & I see it as if from off in far red hills a glow from behind the slope I taste it begin to fall on my upturned face let the fire roar & whatever falls fall like wet ash into white heat had by both bent wrists a wet noose hoists me I turn & spin out of control in the empty up & up I say : “I dreamt your daddy’s a burning man” & I’m thru the drape of a dream & holding on to what fell on me fell all that night fell thru me like an open wing quick as a candle swallows a black pearl it fell on & thru me whatever it was fell like rain was its middle name