HOLE BOTTOMED

There is a box branced beneath
my right seventh rib where are kept
the blazon words. They are aglow with
bright color-- an omnificent bubbling cold
medicine or a jelly fish just arrived on sand.
Beached. I'm painting eyes worrying about the box
filling. The flecks-- red streaks,
depths on eyelids in purple
just alluding.

This is a message to you. See the eyes.
See the eyes always. They're the flint lighters,
the measurements; the eventual last words.
Desperation is the eye. Now, friends--I'm bringing
to your attention-- the nebula.
See this girl, she is much like you. She has a heart.
(A little cliche -- but cliche is sometimes good.)
We all lov ethe predictability of the movies. Don't lie.
There it is again-- the center of light. The Spirit.
There is more love. But where does one put another
brush stroke when the heart is already drawn in;
but, the lungs are absent? Gasping for breath in gold?
What is noticeable? Try to look at the yellow-- streaks from a little
brush. Up top where my eyes are pointing.
Want to be little my loves. Little is, little does
A lot