Gerry Boyd

it's such a blue thrill to split the sky

i. the fair weather that grew into a silky redemption

our gate into the moss that day

was trilled in a perfect coloratura,

demising at thrill the bark target

that was grilled by rusty willows-

pink but secretly unmentioned:

the munificent weeping of impatiens

in a necessary press towards bloom

as to my blush became the saintly dew.

you might call it paradise,

I call it something more.

ii. every evolution has a modicum of unfortunate offshoots

then came a calligraphy shorn of boredom that never faded:

our foundry unspoiled and grave where carved tablets lounged

in a soothing sienna mud that reeked of bubbling, spiky abuse.

I was so high I could see the planets.

iii. it only sounds like growling when I mean it.

there was something barking a gray language of granite oppression,

a voice that dragged with sisal ropes across the canine floor

and tore into the seductive sway of elms and oaks and maples:

it had the darkening violence of an unexpected autumn storm-

I had only expected leaves.

iv. the circle is sometimes announced by the chimes of innocence

twigs were hurled until our nostrils reeked of blood-

times were so much different when the sun arced low

and a horrified pack of shills went monkey, totally:

for a split dream moment the falcon aspired

under gray flurries that huddled with the Valkyries-

to wait for the freeze is, often, to be frozen still:

I still yearn for that sky-blue pop.