L’obscurité verte

Rue de la Harpe, 5e

Flaubert and blood
oranges, the feet of a forest
at the stream, weak-kneed as
a century of Sundays;
a loping changes the angle of a field burnt
crimson, appled and appling since le moyen age. Leaves, insouciant as seeds
spat, as they were in the beginning,
as a story chosen
to be written, as I am
now. To begin
at the end of

I am the loping. You are
the blood-fed field, holding
my hand tooth by
tooth from your obscuritites

your soft socks huddled, formless
in Paris, an Aget

of you upon linen, deranged
angel in a wilderness

its sheath
iris and iris twice

reveal you
A history of the world lays wide open beside you

a cathedral

in the colors of fables within
the blue
bowl of the sky only the illiterate
can read

L’obscurité verte [#16]
© 2009 Fammerée

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Richard Fammerée

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Photograph by Susan Aurinko

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