The Nights and Gales

Nightingale, my owl howls forenoon for you
the vagabond cat in alleys of sympathy
and nymph waltzes on thickets of foggy glasses
to the sycamores that sign to themselves forever.

Nightingale, the tortoise embraces the raining
songs of the thousand chromatic nights we cherished
silent. Amethyst lilac in the dogwood rests
while blood-red salmon drown in a lethargic brook.

Nightingale, the fox waits for auburn clouds despite
twilight’s overcast ritual: a rose blade forged
beyond hope with ember pearls and clever neutral
in pomade as the sun slips to Tokyo heights.

Nightengale, the game mourns the animalism
we create, a heteromogenous self-shared
beast of the sky. Rasping memories of the flesh
unsought, unthought until I’ve found the utter you.

     I stare from the grieving winter stage
to the fading memory of hysteria,
     chosen to mourn the last living cell
lost behind your inattentive eyes bemused
     by spring’s efflorescent vertebrate.
Love, the nights and gales have assembled
     to soothe with hymns voicing rapture.