same

it is forbidden you

the way of the thrushes' trill

the leaves like empurpled blades

rubbed in the spit of the grindstone

the hollow ache of melody

the forest remembers it not

teeth with no centers

nesting in empty veins

alight with fool's gold of eyes

and so she sings it again

bitter tune

of the seedling-coming-forth

the tattered body of the toadstool

bathed in the light of spores

the throat closing

around the water of the song

you cannot hear it,

porcelain girl, and not hearing,

cannot lust. the scrape

of the teacup on the saucer

is yours, the wine of your integral polish

bleeding through the silk;

purity and desire

stippled in your dress; the languid

fall of hair from the purple

of your scarf; silence and light

are yours.

but your eyes, like pale shadows

of the diamond, betray

the song you cannot hear.

your deafness is the taut drumskin

of a heart. your ears bleed

silent, muted blood, etching

notations in you.

plum, primrose, peony,

translucent hands

on the unseen strings of the harp.

privileged to do so,

your mouth echoes with

the damp taste of virtue.

with every chime of dying

vibrato, you breathe

your unknowing breath of song

you give back your silent taste of essence

to the dark moisture of the fire

flaming in the pitch of the earth.