His skin was pale like waneing bronze, like waxing light his eyes the
wick of a sparked moon. He came and sat at our table, which offered
my jumping palpations a resonance of thick flower honey to drum uponSlow and subtle his stoney blues radiate with a bittersweet
tranquility. My darting and shaded shy eyes could not dwell but a
moment of transfixed meditation within his
But that's ok; a birds rainbow sings as lovely backwards as a sidways
thought. Outside that steaming window there are frosts of heat, and
heaps of blazeing snow flakes- he was thinking. He was thinking in
his sing to us, "lessons which teach 'terror' to 'individual' things
are really the only terror-"
Or maybe in his simple talk and my nervoice silence, what was said is
all there was- his bushy wheat smile, pastel and soft- my cold nose
and fumbling hands, stumbling with masses of heavon
He rose when ths impulse was right. His kindness offered and
remembered me what I least expected- touch. A soft palm to my
shoulder energized my senses like a warm kiss that traveled through
translation
Such a simple of love, his touch- a testimony of miracles, of star
carressed cancer, rageing blessages of angel epidemics
His senses and my sensations were just right for the moment to be
bless