only love is all maroon

discerning the blank white firs, pillars to some long-dead demiurge, monolithic.

the shoulders of ancient kings looming overhead,

dappling the pavement in gilded brass,

an investable rain cutting ribbons into the worn hem of your jacket, eschatology.

baptised as we walk,

averting glances at the pantheon walls of the woods.

at your side on the deep green of the estate

i consider the privilege of worship. gospel,

singing silent praise to reflections, the yellow-golds bathing the bridge of your nose,

stained glass, sistine. the gentle red of your cheeks lit, as if from within, by some great unblinking sun.

this is where i find you now, luminous,

looking to me.

(金繕い, きんつくろい, "golden repair"),

is the japanese art of fixing plates

using gold for what once was there.

creating a map of breakages,

finding some beauty in history.

in intricate and kindred ways

it's practical as well as philosophy.

i apply these ancient rites back down to the bone of me,

reviewing,

a rebirth of what was lost to what can surely be.

i think that's what i'm doing, in a way, i suppose;

filling the cracks, painting the gold.

bringing me back, making me whole.

a bruise forming soft on the surface of a peach, wilting daffodils, the feigned enthusiasm of sour milk and hard honey. prometheus playing with ripe and ruin. succulent, a bloodflood of prosper, pine and red. bone dry river bed. prodigal daughter, valley all barren and bloody instead.