In a light bright night
He lays his bed
Deep in hues of Lapis Lazul
In the corners sit the winds
Dressed like musical chairs.
An olive ferments in a pastel saucer
Into mossy green minutae,
To a painted flower to swallow
Against its form, liquid spaces
In lean reflections into a bottomless well

Veils swim on the verge that the flower
Defines, only to be drawn against
An olive splash of skin
In the glazed laquer
Gloss to the invisible anomynous images
Chanting their cacophony of litanies.

A cock crows cockle doodle do
Discrete concrete on fronds
Ruffles a red sprockled throat
A screech of feathers
Stilled in the flowers passion
In the pool's hoard.

The gibbous mound,
The crimson flash in the curtain
Through which he passes
Beneath the bridges
A stairway in pastel hue
Laps tranquilly cool
But which retains
The scream of the arch

Scrawled on a sheen
Defiant in the stance of plumages
Hordes of epiphanies
Buried in the petrification of pastel ripples.

Below the rift of its eye
The sealed beak that will open
Gleams on the lee.

Throughout the entire circumference
Can be seen the tilt giving rise
To both translucence and tranparency
Where the acid and oil separate
Only to appear to coalesce
In the almost pure liquid sheen
Containing its own light
Even in the presence of the vegative
Silt at the bottom of the bowl
That line of definition
Almost lost in reflection
At the moment of brim
He must rise from the swarm
With a chalice of blood for their lips
In room that roams without corners
As the vertigo edge of the flower distills the dish
Together with the quantities of immeasurable throng
Where catacombs display coombes
Head to foot on stilts
On the billowing screens with bowers sprung
Over lairs of hidden hoards .

Night begins and the dogs draw nigh
Scaveging for scraps
Yapping at the walker´s naked ankles
In the dust of unknown allies.

The broken lights of the bazzar
Spangle with glittering promises
And the eyes of the dusky beggar
Sunk in their sockets maze
In crooked cul de sacs embargo
Amidst the furls of silk that foil
The flickering lantern niche
Throttled in an olive tray
In the flower's blur that does not allow
The stroke that smears its horizon
And all beneath to return.

It is helpless in its light,
A camaflouge to visitation,
To the sigh of the rock's flow
So few, so few, so few.

The olive sates in its wish
Rims that sail in surges
Outlining monuments amidst the rubble
Of momentary musical explosions
But the spell is already cast
Diaphanous fireworks emblazon
An already emblazoned sky
Swooping down on high craggy mountains
With the night, as comets play at kites,
And the glistening beak hisses