He stopped writing her when he fell in love with another; love is big fabric.She suffered a kind of falling out; this to its own space poetic silence shored in, spilt; rusting trust; lovers, eX-ed. Pink is the milkmaid’s drowned sunset, ragged the shoreline…
nothing carries the weight of such sheared stain. Where sunset split formless and sublunary“nesses” a wine-darkened, moon-lit emptiness everywhere and nowhere, does it not still?
In sheared space―( ), she cradles Acis…
a fluid, intricate evasion invasive in as-form― her private place
pink pitcher pitched parenthetically O…
will have embodied his image-remainder, poetic lovers parting
by external altercation ―( ). Her blood-milk waxes the infant slant through a woman within, without
and love divides in the interval called woman
pinking her lower down. She will always be two…
And as if she were another, a woman stoppered, Galatea opens through desire the unstoppered
disturbance within the same undead nature. And she tends it dearly. Space rains within, disturbed
and without, disturbed. This imparts a great swirl watering the living girl with the underground nature
love wets the dry… the sole… ensouls; a psyche’s psyche begets itself a second time, underground.
A frayed but unafraid soul ensouls because something big will have happened to someone’s looking
―within and around, from within and, without; from time into time.
A woman falls out of every girling pierced by night formations where the sun-eyed ate
maids-a-milking. Now psyche’s lover carries this very big pink disposition, beatitudes, each, outed
in... for which to reposition dissed positions made after maiden milk poetizes love. Pink Psyche
is a match for that divinity…the formless, sublunary-sensed “nesses”
where gods work away & DIS
appear in the as-form within, without.
The sheared, pinking woman without will bi-focus perspective’s “space” within its own space
as if ‘woman’ falls back upon a landscape edging her edges saw-notched
in maiden gone-nesses, the god
appearing in the space of her having fallen… open…. The realm under her
is her. She is expecting… difference… perhaps, shaded in something even more ”pinked”; something
in the here-to-for unknown great expanse under renovation opening the darkness , something
sheared, under new management, having itself fallen open in the pinked space golder than gold
pinking sheers…. She is like a woman falling totally O; O as in a mariage blanc-ode
a bigger begetting in the trusted rust of lovers eX-ed starlit and ( ).
©2012 mythopoetry.com stephanie pope Fabricating Altercations & Pinking Shears
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
DAILY POEM Turning Sandy In The Desert of the Real