last week’s thrift findings.
crazy jay blue)
ing at me
your scorn of easily
hatred of timid
& loathing for(dull
all regular righteous
thief crook cynic
fragment of heaven)
& vivid voltaire
you beautiful anarchist
(i salute thee
E. E. CUMMINGS
from seven poems, July 1950
Love In High Places by Kimbra
The dust - of sunlight
The mouth of a young girl, like a violet
But gold - smells of nothing. — Anna Akhmatova
Ancestors, The Ancients by Chelsea Wolfe
Firefly Under the Tongue
I love you from the sharp tang of the fermentation;
in the blissful pulp. Newborn insects, blue.
In the unsullied juice, glazed and ductile.
Cry that distills the light:
through the fissures in fruit trees;
under mossy water clinging to the shadows. The
papillae, the grottos.
In herbaceous dyes, instilled. From the flustered touch.
oozing, bittersweet: of feracious pleasures,
of play splayed in pulses.
(Wrapped in the night’s aura, in violaceous clamor,
refined, the boy, with the softened root of his tongue
with that smooth, unsustainable, lubricity—sensitive lily
folding into the rocks
if it senses the stigma, the ardor of light—the substance, the arris
fine and vibrant—in its ecstatic petal, distended—[jewel
pulsing half-open; teats], the acid
juice bland [ice], the salt marsh,
the delicate sap [Kabbalah], the nectar
of the firefly.)