by Shaun Terry
Lumbering through the irises:
gold-pocked lavender-colored plants
in fields of technicolor waves
where my brain stretches,
trying to create vivid permanent records,
as I inhale the honeyscent
from flowers’ tiny fragments.
Lying among them,
wishing to diffuse,
ignoring for an instant
the impending deterioration of flesh,
the constant cycles of sun and moon,
of endlessly absorbing the irises’ glory.
I feel the Earth’s particulate
arresting the sheath and hairs
that envelope my body,
getting stuck in the cracks of my scales,
melting into my sweat,
grinding, wearing down my skin.
I want to soak myself in you
for as long as I can
so that some of you could always be inside me.
And if some day you’re not near me,
I can dig deep into me
and still be able to smell you,
and I’ll smile.