complexity seeps within my pores like a vine
creeping up along the fenceposts by a little
California bungalow. yet, simplicity is divine
and keeps me fingers tiresome and brittle
when it conjures up the memory of sight or smell
that lingers within my frontal lobe and beyond—
a gentle touch, brushing back hair—it’s hared to tell
how the streaks of black became straw bales of blonde.
in the middle of the night, a moment bursts
into sunburst flames that sear my drying skin
for nothing better—only the demons of the worst
can penetrate the complex simplicities within.
(when awaken by the tempers from a passing night
i freeze and tense up while thinking of our dead delights)