The Fade

pockmark closeup crevice delightful in a fancied splendor
of bounce short dress where the sun is seen between her legs
no desire for night yet this lasts only seconds and the red glare

ruptures the faberge spoils the mark we make upon
a bed i do me over and over as i slip from room to room
fresh lipstick wild fragrance damp fabric

torn stockings tawdry words tight clothes
there is sunrise unseen sunset revealed
since decades mean nothing tiny night is null

day is full of color crash a bleed of yellow into green
is for you different from me i am so much less
Dove, blackhole reversed, adamant she never lose flight

a purple waver under lost sheets scented us
my brown shoes split, more holes now in my socks
than those wings that stab the sky

insistence is a harm yet it isn't like memory at all
not pliable, no remainder - that is part of its nature:
the on-and-on of it, unlike milkgloss of pearl

turned and gone, not the pink inside, hidden in time
from time, the blue bed of heart, all waves of heat
in summer, or pockmarked winter sky

swirled till all is white, then dark once more