Origins

Her mystical origins lay in aspirin white
camellias, pouring her scent out like honey over
naked bodies; sprawling limbs exploring space.
She crazes mountaineers who hunt miniature
fawns, filling the valleys with a hurricane of cries.
She cannot be caught but I slip on my
skin and join the fray.

Stealing out means leaving part of me behind; the
side that loses itself in words, flowing like ash
toward the end of the sky.
Once out, I draw in pockets of mystery
with a straw and a gilded spoon.

Hunters and tinsel headed zombies glide
smoothly into cavities of spear headed space as
my jazz filled insomnia keeps me searching
through night into rivers of outstretched
longings. The wind plucks me open at last like a flower,
each petal a hand grasping thin air.