cloudy lemon
Citrus sharp and sour
tart and tingling on your
swollen lips
bee stung some’d say
but don’t they
know the
taste of honey?
Bathe your skin in milky
moonlit waters and
trace a constellation
of freckles that
sit and speckle
your nose and cheeks
like wild flowers
in
the meadow
near the lake.
Take my hand and
lead us down
beneath the surface,
and the things you
try and hide from.
Silent treatment
doesn’t work
too well when
you can’t stay
quiet.
I remember
secret things that
may remain buried
but spring will come,
like you like to
in the sun,
and soft petals
will
unfurl again.
Dewy blossom
in the morning
arched toward the light
and the heat,
beads of you sweet,
even sweeter
than honeysuckle scent
or peach tea
just like on holiday,
though you always
went for
cloudy lemon.
European evenings
after
sticky afternoons
go to bed
with sticky fingers
after
sneaking to your room.
Long winter same
as always,
the ice will
arrive
on dark mornings,
but it will thaw
with the heat
of your breath
as you
“remember” summer.
Saying my name
along with gods
and you don’t
believe in either.
It’s only real when
you can touch it.





Amazing!! (as always)
insanely beautiful and enchanting this poem is a feeling