Memory

 

The purple trails of my sluggish tears, 

streaks to my chin, 

red-faced bursts of burnt flowers in my eyes—

my lemon-stung eyes cry for you, darling.

Acid visions blurring; love-stained spring dresses twirling,

hair-twined daisies spinning, air perfumed with feminine laughter 

fresh as the dew-scented sun.

The warm coconut-milk of your feet spills gently

onto the trampled daisies, which drink it up like flowers.

I want to see you, darling, once more, before you

leave—but you have left. I left your funeral 

because I heard you talking to me, quietly like

the drumming rain. And in the shade

I saw you, a raspberry I wanted to pick,

to ingest and live warmly forever in your eyes

—they were blue like sapphire-berries and I 

loved them.

(More lavender bursts of memory.)

Picnicking under apple trees,

pears redolent of lovemaking in apple-strewn meadows,

lips and lips kissing earth-ground blanket

naked as the clear sky, 

flushed with cheeks breathless in their hot love

and desire ripe as female breasts.

Soft and comfortable your lap like a bed of honeysuckle.

No rain, no sorrow, no regret was there....

no tears and there was no time.

NOTES OF AN UNDERGROUND HUMANIST

© 2014-2019 by Chris Wright