04 April, 2008

"Vertebrae," he called it and left it

there for me to contemplate

as I wore your mark on my breast

and stood and stared,

hiding from the sun.

I have too many thoughts for you

and you have none except for how the blossoms fall

like false

rain

on your lap.

Bronze in a garden or petals

in hair cannot calm jealousy.

Look! I am yours

but no amount of smoke can bribe you to

be mine

You are Your Own (sculpture,

artist, and

meadow)