from "Notes from Outside Sources"

by Amick Boone

I.

The covert invisible pain of a thistle,

lavender in its temptation, a deviation

from these chlorinated weeds, outweighs

glycerin kisses of midday.

Twilight is a favored time, a pointillist's scene,

minute pure parts of light and dark,

that when viewed from afar,

appear emulsified.

Yes, extremes, in a constant state

are provocative when they reciprocate.

But, unusual, last night's yielding body,

embraced in sleep, offered unfamiliar

sweetness, increased.

II.

The lean mahogany imperative of you,

deciphering my diary, my idea

silhouettes, my dawning, rendering

me demigod, obscene. Before I'd been

so miniscule, our double helix, our to do.

I'm heaving Artemis for Aphrodite,

a jealous girl, but in the competition,

she brought a mortal prize. Pick me, I'll girdle

you uxorial, she said, but that's later, for now

even your slender hiccup is mythologized.

You, my trained fighter,

will you batten me for sailing,

tighten ropes around my bow?

Only if I, centripetal, allow.

My invader, my barbarian,

my sunrise, my sublime.

III.

On with the lunging, yes,

even with prognoses

of quicksand. How careless.

But what a light-headed surge:

that quasi-real thrill,

the whirlwind drawing in.

And to think: with dwindling control

I preened

while his ventricle was emptying.

Inside him, there's no room for me

and whatnot.

How therapeutic

it must be

to feel nothing

and still have me.

V.

"You will dream about the sun and that will be the beginning of a bright future."

- Fortune from an Arcade Machine

At the beginning of craving you,

my own troubles unaided;

you are luxuries, will soon indulge it all,

will be able to surround against will.

Fortunate individual, chasing you:

besieged by dream,

future sun,

a sincere disappear.

Is that your bright fight, dear one?

Go for help;

it has been won.

Now I can feel the form of blue.

The bottom makes you, more you.