Blossom Studies

 

How blue your yellow hair.        And the landscapes of Norway.

 

And your house thrice torn down        but once by death.

 

There is shouting here all the time.        Here all the time.

 

Blue thistle script of an old letter,        sepia continents of stamps.

 

Dear past, that rushes into the dense blue        afternoons under March

 

and wells with all its sleeping, nascent,        blooms.

 

Greening the landscape        machine.

 

What black light        founders your words.

 

This ringing quiet.        Nostalgia debris in the shipyard.

 

 

In time the images will come.        The Newspaper District, Berlin 1918.

 

The Hanover Glass Factory Fire.        You venture out into despondent

 

night. Inking in puddles, in spots clinging        the billboards papered in strips

 

beginning to peel.        Your face shines through the architecture.

 

Stitching a button back on a coat,        eyes back on a reflection.

 

Stitching gathering.        Carving our from an hourglass.

 

Like the satin trim of a blanket, the spaces        (I myself) are coming apart.

 

On Violet Street.        On Violet Street.