mountain flower lip open
sweet iron in coal on tongue
water on canvas
and the long wearing suit of the grave.
of you these things I picture:
thumbs struck and stained vermillion
loose eyes stumbled blue
with smoke long lipped in lung exhaling.
paint you then the ghosted birch
heads suspended apple ripe
all flesh soft and spines
along the dark edges cattle loom.
our times slow in the crack of paint
winnow at the eyeball’s rim
tongues livers hearts feel
souls cup the scent of mountains, flowers.