curled, a comma under the cover
thumbing through the abundance of pages,
it renders me tender:
helps me remember
the sound of the rescinding of september
heliotrope, it turns tangerine,
scarlet to deep aubergine,
toward a sundae of horizon ice cream
neatly she filed them, in felt envelopes
with a felt tip pen on cardstock
corralling each tiny shudder, one in another,
folded boxes, nesting papercraft,
Mandelbrot in the bird’s nest in the bobbin.
forbid me to sigh if you must: but dare
not forbid me to be cryptic. i’m the curtain
in your courtly chamber, translucent
and satin- waiting to be embroidered
by your hand, sewn lovingly, guilt’s tapestry.
my silence is the sentence. in that two minutes
where i lingered too long in looking for the excuse
flimsy rationale, far too loose and diffuse
too obtuse to scale- quite the tale.