Pearwood
︎︎︎ Michael Borth
︎ Sept 23, 2025
Imbricated paths among the teahouses.
Ringing warm ice rain in what the aphids
Have left on the bowing leaves. Since I left
The flowering heather. Since, polyhedral, I
Performed for myself as a child. In various deliria
Of space in shapes I put my tongue to the icing
Sugar on pearwood. To come upon the varied bells
In the network of paper entranced by the right angle.
From swordplants and thorn ivy. From her friend
Who has never had a boyfriend and is not looking
To exchange info. To the powerlines in the ending
Of seven there will always be a crown in a box. Or
The automata of gored malls in fissures of plaingrass.
Stilled by contentment in the clockwise watering of aloe
From the shelves of ambulance and rescue legos or
Little humors of the town progression forced by a cold
Retinue of morning dogs yielding steam. How I feared
Them in the morning to the bus. To have this releasement
In a world void of not yet color and not yet material. Pressed
Into forgotten burial plots of the pandemic woods we kissed
There like imagined adults free in our livid rapture. Or the
precious holder of a sequence in keys goes to Hawaii. To
Lead classes in breath or to San Diego chairs honed by camera
and I season with them the crestfallen icon of meteoric golds.
Ringing warm ice rain in what the aphids
Have left on the bowing leaves. Since I left
The flowering heather. Since, polyhedral, I
Performed for myself as a child. In various deliria
Of space in shapes I put my tongue to the icing
Sugar on pearwood. To come upon the varied bells
In the network of paper entranced by the right angle.
From swordplants and thorn ivy. From her friend
Who has never had a boyfriend and is not looking
To exchange info. To the powerlines in the ending
Of seven there will always be a crown in a box. Or
The automata of gored malls in fissures of plaingrass.
Stilled by contentment in the clockwise watering of aloe
From the shelves of ambulance and rescue legos or
Little humors of the town progression forced by a cold
Retinue of morning dogs yielding steam. How I feared
Them in the morning to the bus. To have this releasement
In a world void of not yet color and not yet material. Pressed
Into forgotten burial plots of the pandemic woods we kissed
There like imagined adults free in our livid rapture. Or the
precious holder of a sequence in keys goes to Hawaii. To
Lead classes in breath or to San Diego chairs honed by camera
and I season with them the crestfallen icon of meteoric golds.
Michael Borth is the author of As I Roam The Life Cycle and The World Dreamer.
Also by Michael: The Metacom Tower
Also by Michael: The Metacom Tower