turquoise sunset

an inverted spinal tap became a tree quickly emerging from its cage,
stretching up through the crown of my head
as puppeted pupils obey the noisy ascent.

up, up, its fingers glow aqua in a japanese moonlight.

if i sat transparent beneath its crawling roots, would i shine like the sun-met surface of a Turkish sea?
would my alabaster brow raise currents through a timeless magazine of perennial flowers,
or turn black on its journey through the core and be suspended beneath the rocks of a chinese mine?

if the tree's viridian aurora could produce fruit, it would bloom forth pomegranates filled with Midas's preserves.

for now, fingers grope for the time when ladies were still frail, prone to comsumption,
while their husbands' muskets rested on the stirrups of galliant stallions,
when embroidered Indian handkerchiefs still made patterns in the sandy sky,
and undergarments outnumbered their hand-sown coverings.

quickly, quickly, before the fruit is rotten!
how do i taste the sweetness when i have nothing to compare it to?
a simple voice says i dont have to leave until im ready.
so, i can rest here, then?

silk spun roots wrap me up in themselves,
and all can see right through me:
a figure glowing turquoise in december.