The tinkle of a little silver bell, a bright silver
goblet of sound sparkling through the crystal
limbs, this chalice of his offering – on distant black
nights, endless waves and kisses from moist lips
apart of screams in prisons,
a musky tantalizing taste of a little silver bell,
sound of light from the brain of Kaufman.
Lost in the dreams of the city's streets,
punctuated by the periphery of everything,
he was slain nightly
on the arrows of city directions.
I have fantasized on the Sculptor From Cherino,
and the weight of his wind. In candlelit baths,
beneath baskets of oak moss, I have bathed myself
In orange laughter. I've wandered with
The Celestial Hobo, and rode high
on A Bird With Painted Wings,
naked with the words.
When my skin was stripped of its luminosity,
on some days it was clothed again,
a victim of the words.
Curious, I swam defiantly
through The Ancient Rain, root-like,
Into the clay of his truth, this poet Kaufman,
a bird with painted wings,
riding light within the wind.
© Michelle Marie Boleyn
