Golden Axe

He who
smiles at
storms

warns
the lovers
to unravel

like so much
direction, and
those damnable

destinations is
he who cuts fists
in two seashells,

he who smiles
at the Basque moor,
sour faced,

breath sucked in,
air knocked out,
wielding the axe

of copious
annulment, darker
cells, the texture

of freshly caught
Chinook, and that
fetishism on your

tongue again,
saying silently
that it cannot be

born!
Yet it levels your
livery like too much

silence, too much
unrequited reason,
and she waits for him

still, on the sill of her
eclipse, the moon acting
as a misplaced earring.

Somewhere he grapples it,
flush to the glass, gapping
as only lavish lovers can,

he swallows a golden axe,
azure usherette,
smiles upon the words that

broke him.