An Evening And Some Years

O pale Ophelia

of cobalt seas,

the willows weep

rose-colour

on prussian blue-jays

and you,

you foolish girl,

you plod

through sacred woods

to harvest gallows

for bird-watchers

as if one azure night

is enough

for us to worship

the winds

that tremble with

your denim skirts

and the evening buds

of indigo

that drop pollen like

commas.

♢

Tell me, my moon-song,

have you buried

all the misery

in albums

or you string them

in your ribs

like blueberry moons

too?

And do you ever look

at the archipelagos

of sapphire stars

and sing the same old song,

'Someday we'll meet in Lvov, My Love and I,'?

Oh flower-flesh, I am sorry,

I am someone

they have mourned

just yesterday

and for me

the lapis-lazuli clouds

have lost their madness,

to the thunders

that are tuneful.

♢

So sleep,

before I run out of

lullabies

about a girl

whose eyes are not

turquoise

and yet

turquoise.

But I do not think I ever will,

so read,

and you will

come across

dragonflies and

clementines

amongst a teal foliage,

♢

And that's all there is to it,

my love-songs will thrill

your sobbing Gods,

my metaphors will witness

the henna of your hands,

your brows will still be

as terrible and sweet

as the deathlessness

you get born for,

and you will love someone

with ultramarine

windowpanes,

while I will be

just a poet to you, my dear,

who hangs in those same metaphors

everyday.