Ripples from Raindrops: Jeff
A/N: So the series of acrostic name poems continue. Although not as long of a series as Newkirk's City poems, ne?
Evening drops in his window with the silence of a stolen kiss.
Vagrant buildings climb in his head like the shards of a broken jewel,
entering fallen realms that have not only been crushed but risen.
No one is watching him per se, the truth is no one is seeing him.
In light green yellow sage, he is harmless and lazy and carefree,
foolishly allowing his sugar stitched needlework to be melted away.
His quary is one that has learned from both virgin Artemis and tempting Aphrodite.
Emerging from his lips, molasses, quick and sweet, dipped his words.
Inquisitive fingers that tap lightly against backs because he gives comfort.
Such delicate ministrations of a petal pink mouth twisted in laughter.
"Olive" is a word that wraps him up into an
undeniable pillow soft statue. He is olive, from the shirts he wears to his voice,
tinted with the rich smooth golden oil of olives.
Or more, oranges. all words of o, the way his mouth curves
faultlessly into a small o of surprise and bemusement.
Pearly white laughter spilling forth in multitudes of cream showers.
Languidly we all smoke the ashes of his incarceration,
aware of the essence of him being slowly whispered away, like so many
candle wax tears dripping into a brass hand.
Endymion, thou art reborn as him. Who, then, is his Selene?