werewolf there was a yellow in your eyes,
the eventual last degrees of sunset,
that seemed caught out of a canary's flight,
a blurring radiance of a million blossomed lemongrass,
offering up uniformity, exactness,
as if they were units of distance,
brushed aside for the essential brown of earth.

there is a yellowing in your eyes,
the way old books become pulpy,
surrender from the outside in,
admit too many huddled masses with each undying word.
life invites decay. decay stays.
and bracing for the worst with the best intentions, your eyes
put forth various arguments,
various levels,
a muted glimmer crosses a dull metal,
an oasis inhales but is trapped by the ribs of the desert.
the necessary condition for growth is decay, mutation.
in your eyes tears swell yellow,
dissipate into heat, fall into my skin,
where an oasis is cracked open,
spreads, tenderness filling in the cracks of egotism,
like yellow honey running down a pine cone.

if a heat scan was taken of us, we would be forever permutations between two shades of yellow, there may be a pattern, an easy rhythm, there might even be brightness.
only two levels though, on or off.
and in rare moments, when there is the open circuit of kisses and laughter, there may be a blinding undifferentiated brightness,
an anomaly before dulling.
birdmad aging paper, brittle with time 030306
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