• I. First Letter – Mise en Scene
    Dust impact severs battered cloth restraints-
    stripping the journal of all privacy.
    I write to you with busted locks, damp paints,
    blotted kisses and new found memory

    etched in dewed grasses. I’m still unable
    to garden daffodils and not notice
    your umbra like a bad green house effect.
    Pictures; faces infected with mold mists,

    are but fuel to their nitrogen-rich soil.
    I’m following the caterpillar trails,
    finding Spanish moss about to spoil
    the daisies in the living room; dwellings

    made of feathers and sticks from birds hoarding
    our papers efflux over walnut courts.



    II. – En Famille
    Our papers efflux over walnut courts
    so here I write you on gilded leaves
    seamed and bound in leather hide. Mushrooms wart
    walls trickling dewy outlines of sleeves.

    Carpeted stairs track tiny faun hoof prints through
    infested oak doors to rutted, paper walls.
    See! Families overran here, lasted; grew
    like our scrapbooks ingrained to shelves all

    webbed together by the spider eggs laid
    in out stretched butterflies swaying in spring
    breezes - things you swore to exterminate.
    Or maybe you meant the pinked and sheared things

    in the fire pit ashes, lining frayed,
    so overgrown ivy greens air raid.



    III. – Terrible Laissez Faire
    So overgrown, ivy greens air raid
    hothouses eclipsing a swing romance.
    It’s ropes unbraided, bolted to nightshade
    as Venus’ jaws uprooted the chance

    to bloom jilted eyes photosynthesized
    in yesteryear. Brick paths pebble Amazon grass
    now. The Crab Apple went hermit and hides
    against gasping riverbeds let go last

    August when the Willow wept it bursting
    against the hush we left. Weather beaten brush
    dances gypsy light bugs retelling firsts
    and lasts. The seeds quenched, waiting for the rush

    of tangled limbs to till virgin lands, tort
    the passion savored once as pages warp.



    IV. – Coup de Maitre
    The passion savored once as pages warp
    cradles against fresh threads. Coal covered canvas
    basted in oil stands in for wood short
    of tint. Powder blue ceilings stretch and kiss

    paint tipped forest green chandeliers sunning
    the dinning table set for midday tea
    as you had planted in daily routine.
    The gardener asked where you stayed leaving me

    to stutter a clumsy smile. I swayed
    in the chitchat pedaling old time talk.
    His hair has peppered, his memory hazed.
    All the while I felt your felt tips walk

    over my sea foam skirts, goose bumped skin craved
    and crumpled under fingers; flowers raved.



    V. – Jeunesse Doree
    And crumpled under fingers, flowers raved
    greetings pollinating an already
    well nourished stamen sending buzzes. Caved
    in and caught red cheeked, we perfumed that May

    with luscious scandals and forget-me
    -not petals followed by shoes, socks, and shirts
    with each breath making the humidity
    melt like the thick brittle blankets we skirt

    -ed to. I remember the 'I love yous'
    scribbled across black and white photographs
    time-lined over the year. Dandelions strewed
    across our handfasting. Giggling past

    fear of running free to our new home mocked
    in multihued moss sheets you had debauched.



    VI. – Affaire D’amour
    In multihued moss sheets you had debauched
    butterfly kisses snaking forbidden
    fruit across my cherry pressed lips first hocked
    in some oasis black market. Laden

    in sediments and your sonnets fluttered
    on my tongue like nectar salivating
    my then new born loss. Cocooned, I shuttered
    reservation in greener grass waiting

    for the next hidden garden you’d unearth.
    Our virtues fell, raked and pagan favored,
    broom hopping to a new time spelled in mirth.
    The pages exiles descending silver

    lining- climax out lasts sky castle fate-
    for me; deliverance of something great.


    VII. – Par Excellence
    For me, deliverance of something great
    had sauntered higher, fixed sight lewd and flushed.
    Lips chirruped dulcet sermons into late
    day. Apple petals accent your new tux

    like how illuminated I’m in white.
    Our consummation delved in cotton shrouds
    coupled inside a core sprouting delight.
    Do you remember? Our limbs reached clouds;

    roots nipped rain that day budding me anew-
    so new I bordered exotic on your
    thoughts. Weighing the photographs, who knew
    then you moved on greener pastures? Before

    I sat among tarot cards your hands, clutching
    my tealeaves, ached the lacking eager touch.



    VIII. – Arriere-pensee
    My tealeaves ached. The lacking eager touch
    infiltrated sheet after sheet veining
    endeavors to blotch out reluctant hunches
    that this novel’s tailed by stitching refrains.

    Summer’s heat gusts against sun-kissed harvest
    piling stillness on the table between
    us plating the grasses bronze. I grew fond
    of that; only achieving third it seemed

    myself. The tumbling days etched a retreat
    for Zeus’s brighter smile, but He’s not
    yours so I doubt you noticed the defeat.
    Did I, this Lithe, run folly when Eve caught

    your Adam’s apple as dawn tricked early call?
    Should’ve realized your Eden would fall.



    IX. – Coup de Grace
    Should’ve realized your Eden would fall
    drawing stale air from your rewritten word.
    Only perfected ideals made recall
    since you weeded my Shadows*. Once I heard

    the stairs creek your name I couldn’t contain
    the clouded faces; wrenched glances sidelining
    these potted feet from dashing to the shamed
    final chapter where you stood only finding

    a dirt covered shovel. Our hard work plowed over
    in the midst of trampled poises; fresh buds
    turned in from her hands and knees. The clover
    lost luck before it was page pressed. It’s mud

    caked our memoir smudging revelations
    between my entries overlooked by pens.



    X. – Pis Aller
    Between my entries overlooked by pens
    I six-sensed your habitation, but fled
    scribbling away screeches. Bandaged and pinned,
    sat All Hollow’s costumes the in old shed

    where bats narrowly squeaked by flooding light.
    Black and orange still garnish the site, ribbons
    silhouette the ceiling cupping dust mites
    far from the crystal below. Oh, the fun

    we had stepping wicked tunes. Red wine stained
    our tongues and you idolized me then
    in my witch’s rig. My runes laid out claim
    of tomorrow’s theory. Must have missed when

    you were lost to parasitical maws
    and bugs; the vermin that consume recall.


    XI. – Sauve Qui Peut
    And bugs; the vermin that consume recall,
    chomp the remaining brush towering eyes.
    Dirt starts muddling just woven carpets hulled
    to be stowed. Cream linens unroll good-byes

    as they drape the décor. Again, spiders
    weave homes in damp corners sucking smiles
    from our portraits while caterpillars
    spit tapestries covering your idle

    eyes peering past wallpaper peels. Do your
    clouds still know my form even with her light
    shining past all my patches? Those blind, poor
    sights haven’t returned repelling my might

    to win you. Guess I neglected mountains
    of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains.



    XII. – Mal de Siecle
    Of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains
    I miss most your mind. I don’t wish to fall
    back on changes rolling down the mountain
    sides only to clutter your ears from calls

    of not so long ago and actually
    pretty up close incidents. Piling
    the gutters you claim as your halo, please
    remember to divulge to your Christ files

    paper clipped to the photos once damned. I
    relied on the future to counter-act this
    past as we astrologically aligned,
    but no counting of numbers could stop this.

    Your blunt interpretation only lends
    this (sod heart parched of leaves at) autumn’s end.



    XIII – Savior-faire
    This sod heart’s parched of leaves at autumn’s end
    so I’ve returned-- but to what? Snow-capped ache?
    Frost-nipped words crystallize chapped lips offend-
    ing the truth captioned in footnotes. The fate

    challenged to us is lost on blue tinged ears.
    You threw down the sword long ago, I know,
    while I continued for the Grail. Fear
    replaced by desperate feet that only go

    forward pulsing for that eternal drink,
    but forever would not rewrite romances
    we depicted. Your scribe’s permanent ink
    blotched attempted edits. I quit! What chance

    is left? These letters simply prove the end-
    your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds.



    XIV. – Bon Voyage
    Your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds
    this way; my pen quivers blurred hello’s and
    useless good-byes. There’s no stair to transcend;
    no fatherly advice to help these hands

    blistered and painted to make following
    the lines that much easier. But the easel
    expressing blue hand printed steps can’t show
    the way. I received your prayer book. My soul

    was saved the day you offered my secrets
    to the bedroom fire pit. Enlightened, I
    set new flame to your book-bound ways. Commit
    this to false saving waters as I float high

    casting a miracle departure. Faint
    dust impact severs battered cloth restraints.



    XV. Last Letter – Dernier Cri.
    Dust impact severs battered cloth restraints;
    our papers efflux over walnut courts
    so overgrown ivy greens air raid
    the passion savored once as pages warp

    and crumpled under fingers. Flowers raved
    in multihued moss sheets you had debauched
    for me -- deliverance of something great
    my tealeaves ached. The lacking eager touch

    should’ve realized your Eden would fall
    between my entries overlooked by pens
    and bugs; the vermin that consumes recall
    of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains.

    This sod heart’s parched of leaves at autumn’s end.
    Your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds.



    * I put this here because not everyone knows what a Book of Shadows is. The best way I can put it is a Pagan’s diary and spell book.