the liquid ambers are ripe
with leaf and burr.
Light and shade dance like children
behind green curtains,
who too sway to
the elusive music of a summer's
breeze. Linked by lush emerald arms,
the lane is an organism,
a teething, pulsing
thing of sound and
sight: a car passes through;
a blood vessel.
I can see it, the orange
hiding with beautiful menace behind
curtains green with naïveté,
the annual umber flame
that immolates my soul...
...I will not see the consummation,
like the fire,
eats at me.
I want to see the flesh slowly melt
from the limbs, exposing nerve and
bone to winter sun. I need to watch
like a father who must witness his wife
being ripped open during childbirth.
The concept is simple,
I don't want my home life to become a car crash.