Poetry

That fleeting incandescence 
was branded witch 
in grotto of a cloud. 
For the first time I saw 
your face in water. 
 
You said this is manic 
depression talking to flowers 
and seeing a bizarre 
apparition in dark blue sky. 
 
What was the thing called 
arrival? Every moment 
a truth dies before 
your eyes. 
 
Between laughter and tears 
I touch your eyes. Is that real? 
And your brown ankles 
walking on white snow. 
 
I am soliciting a bloodstained 
floor for a dance.