Dark Manor

The waters of our pilgrimages have shifted their ribbons, riverbeds yawn against a dry throat, a dawning bone thrust from the skin of a carnelian, roughened from the passage of obscure hands, their faces leaning towards the greater shadows thrown against pillars like blood,

There are roots in the irises when I rise in your wake, more present in your absences, in the concave hollow left in my bed,

Now where are you dreaming your gold and silver and blue, through the high vertices, where pigeons can roost in your origami memories, some light drifts a coal fog in the dark demesne, some winters and summers pass through your fine pleated wings at just a glance,

Your hips cut a knife through the hall with their gravities, so that slivers of paint curl their fingers up,

I am an alchemist of quicksilver, petrol and petrichor, twirling my baton through the sand you whirl through the window with your mouth, and the walls lean forward to see whom next you'll shudder with a pounding kiss