Elderflower

I

My eyes meditate on you; the static stones of your sprawled body, and the tectonic,lazy grinding of your megalithic limbs that shy away from the golden organ pipes burning through the canopy smattered above, honeyed lasers on our shared milk-flesh. As the corners of your mouth rise, and your tongue quakes on your elderflower sorbet, mine does too. You are walled by feathery blades of dew soaked lawn and dandelions,the monumental press of your tired body forming the fringes of a tangled exoskeleton.

It’s June—thirty degrees—and your irisesare coursing ice caps of alabaster snaked byblack, dendritic ice. Under the tundra,a microcosm teems restlessly in your waters.

With my pickaxe I tear chunks in you to grace those lagoons and pore over what I find, somehow thinking I know which part of your body’s clockwork will creak into motion, before being dazed by the hurricane that sweeps through, amplified by the whirl and flutterof your body that now ripples and responds in sail-like nuances. A benevolent voyeur, I am trapped in thisaudiovisual screening; compelled,involved, and powerless.

II

Older now, we glide like fat and water;two strata scraping by, ignited by sparksof flint and the prospect of shared diamonds.Our seven souls roll through the streets,

Living off milky elderflower soap stuffedin pockets from honeymoon hotels, gettinga rush from the scent of cheap rose water splashed like tears on new, old wallpaper.

III

Verdant chrysanthemums are intruders onThe dirt, clapping show ponies of the graveside.Beneath the ruckus, I hope you hear theLilting reverb of the elderflower sprigs I lay.

Amongst the meaningless, blurred granite Clouds at your head, I trace optical illusions Of the broken ice cream churner, repaired At last, and the sorbet we would make.