lighting Yorick

pangs of indifference,
sharp shooting pains cut through
the question mark of sleep
flickering eyelids
mark red the seeds of transgression
and the world is a green mango
we slice with
perfume and ash,
small burning fires rise

familiarity twitches, sheds
music
in the hollow key of uncertainty,
we dabble paint and draw the hard yellow line of caution.
narrow the quest
seep longing into the thinness of
circumstance and the delicacy of touch
ponder brilliant light: 
why does colour fade?
only the breath is round and whole!

but you asked me if I ever fantasized about Buckwheat
while we were making love the night before and you set
up the old pond for a poor man's hot tub, I couldn't love
you more, not even if you were Bukowski spilling secrets
of his immortality into my mouth, gagging, too full of laughter,
not even if Neruda 
fishing for lilacs, apples and burning moons in my tears.
weeps

I light little blue candles inside Yorick
think of horse's teeth,
piano keys,
silk cushions and leaves fluttering in the distance.