They come at you unleashed and disembodied, dark feathers, beaks like birds of prey, wings flapping, slapping, threshing… An endless onslaught of nightfall and gloom. But then, as the squall calms (and it will, if you let it), a frail one will stand out – so brightly colored in its precious evanescence, filtering in straight to your inner sanctum. And you’ll let it alight on your flower – glamorous iridescent ephemerid, you’ll bathe it in the whitest of your eye, you’ll cup your hands and welcome it inside to nestle and be cradled there for good. You’ll keep it warm with your heartbeat and breath, you’ll let it wallow in your sadness – beauty as yet unspoken and unseen, you’ll let it trickle its seductive relish into your ear and get so otherworldly high on its chalice of rapture, you’ll fill your greedy mouth with it, roll it around for ages on your tongue like kids with candied cherries and, strangled by mellifluence, you’ll try not to choke up as it flows down into your place of pleasure where you’ll make savage love to it like the articulate animal that you are, you’ll suckle it and suck its marrow out, you’ll venerate and crucify it, too, you’ll weep and you’ll nurture its wounded memory like anguished mothers do and then, able to bear it no more, you’ll recreate it, you’ll spit it out at others – Here, drink!
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