Illusory Memory

A painter in the field stares cold, 

pupils blue-tinged and dilated,

golden coronas grasp his gaze

watering under a morning sun,

that has yet to dip over the far side of the mountain.

His mouth is full of petals,

and it is hard to focus

and refocus

the light glinting off the strands of loose hairs,

skin red-singed and peeling,

a low humming comes from a voice once his

sweet melodies of burnt sand catch fire like umber

wood, as the chrysanthemum unfurls.

From his exhale it smells of copper,

breath warm-ice and crackling 

it sweeps the rain downwind to the sea

where crystals of salt are crushed like static 

drawing blood, from the cuts on his lips.

Over, on the far side of the mountain,

the moon is crescent,

reflecting a canvas of sodden yellow 

into his eyes, pool-gray and diluted,

and it is easy to weave 

and reweave

threads of a flower that withered years ago

when the painter could do nothing

but watch.