Passionfruitcowgirl

he touches my four symbols

on his alphabet piano

and rips my heart into

an unseasonal bloom.

His five birds come to roost

and a landslide

of tiny

little

        flowers

demolishes me.

 

Our poles connect

with Aquarian velocity

and suddenly, I

feel the gravity of his bones,

catch a scent of American earth,

see his dark beauty,

cloaked in tree, swathed in mountain,

riding across the moon.

 

My tender Australia,

timid on her feet

and fragile of borders,

clatters her pretty tea set.

 

The skitty birds hush

inside the dripping gum

and

a lava sunset

turns suddenly coy.

 

His American shadow,

ripe in musk

and heavy with legend

casts a Wuthering spell

across the nervous wattle.

 

Erotic shapes appear.

Strange flowers bloom.

A flinch.

Then disarray

across the virgin garden.

 

My menagerie of dinosaurs

and refugees,

struck clumsy with desire

for the sharp

                       edge

of American charm,

push against the scythe blade

for that long taste

of frontier lust.

 

The dew, remaining

quivers bright with rumour of his

deadly graces.

Each bead a’quiver with gossip

of his fateful elegance

with weapons

of seduction.

 

Hysteria afflicts the marigolds

and the daisies act silly.

 

Little herds of snapdragons pout

and blush

beside the birdbath

while a cuddle of mushrooms

becomes breathless with

a most exquisite panic.

 

Gondwana’s prim bouquet of

lemon and honey, red earth and gum

is utterly disheveled

by this exotica

of hot pine, leather,

gunsmoke

and sweat.

 

 

America still…

just has to touch those four glyphs

and a pantheon of winds

unleash their deadly graces

into the manes and nostrils

of stallions, riding now,

on this full moon

across the Field of the Pacific

on hooves of wild foam,

with Isis, the moon, at the whip.

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