Blushing on a Cordial Winter Morning

So we have arrived at the outbreak
The sun has sunken to the bellow danger
The remorse for standing waves
Do not tuck in the tide
Not like she used to
On evenings so well remembered
The lament in the standing free zone

But of course I have become
Too acquainted like a mother’s bird song
So well delineated, so rehearsed
Cold vacant, as a matter of the curse
To weed the strangers below
The decks of percussion
And milk for ornamental grief

I am withdrawing from
Your seizing face cannon
Too real to dismiss entirely
Too limber, to ache on the mends
Your face cannon
Does not hurt me, for it saturates
Under surfaces too deep to recess
On empty carton boxes
That must breathe tatting
Sublime entry to the curtains
Of our supposed aligned destiny
Too fragile for created thoughts
Your face cannon, too much
To register in the dreams to
Enter epistles of thought