Rusty Morrison

Generosity Perplexes with Its Clandestine Arising

Orders come in to us from outside the sour, but still magisterial, destiny.
Orders still. Incarceration,
the inner mechanism
of even the cloud-fed and silk-draped premeditated act.

Temerity. Young King chooses ferocity for his pose under the fleur-de-lis canopy.

Say you would trade the princess concentrate, for a breathable air.
Say you would flesh what is too pervasively ours to recognize-prickling
to be itched.

Saying is too easily trapped inside the head. It should begin outside,
visible and indisputable
as halo,
you say instead.
There was
a sycamore-lined peninsula
I might have answered with.

Arrest me for my manipulations of scale, for attempting an heir in both
realms.

Error. Of the large, weak eyes, the kind a dark border is meant to emphasize.

It is the effort to arrive at transparency that will finish us
bruise-blushed.

Our lips have been kissing a long time.
Stretching us thinner than dove-flight.
Than dollars.
Than sleep, with its purity of witness, an origami crane unfolding its ghosts.