Thursday, June 02, 2016


yorkshireman, "Purple thistle," 2015

The choke is blown. Drifts of down
that the wind’s not lifted, gather; I
reach to touch the amethyst edge,
am pricked, set with a welling ruby,
my skin the finding for a rare jewel.
Quilting for a goldfinch nest, tinder
for a hunter’s fire, choke protecting
the heart beneath, baskets of down
to fill a mattress: soft as I lay upon it
under your gaze. Later, alone, a few
spines pierce the pallet ticking, leave
me tossing: sleepless, prickly nights.

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