M i a v a n d e n B o s —

Excess

I

Inside the chimed wing of the moth, flitting around my ears, is money.  A home with filigree pendants below lily-white frescoes and above rosebud baseboards.  Numbers flicker and fade in the light, slanting in through stained-glass doors. I have tiptoed to the pinnacle, above the masses, buoyant.

II

The elephant dance of dusk lashes the lilac front, stomps fallen flower-top. An ancient current cracks a sleeping crypt. The orthodox threes and pagan nines, with Yggdrasil in line, surround the steeple.

III

Below the sill, the bay spills its guts onto the sunroom floor. I decode the ontology of a ding in the glass, a bottle that dropped with a muted thud and splintered into silver sand. Hoping on the chance of a fleet of invisible doctors with tiny hands, small enough to mend and return stone, crystal, bottle.

IV

A witch flies, dispatching song, above towns and strife in wanted rooms, above racing tyres of doubt, endeavours of floored roses and middle-tongued sorrow. She perceives a phantasmagoria of time to let my blood on the leaves, sown in the ground, a blood-wetted indulgence among the marigolds.

V

Wet with the dew of heaven, my flesh sprouts a soft fur of alfalfa. Alive with worms, gold with wriggling, my wealth mingles with ground water.

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