Tabula Rasa

Soaking on benches drops of dew like the chloroplastic fields that you plow 

Retracing the lines above some Height, sowing novelty as if to erase hundreds of 

Holy wars, and dig out from pollen stuck in the ground

Uttering to soothe, like a mother’s idealist kiss

Staining your skin—where under

Flow errors endless, where her name

I long for her, staring at a calendar I only see 

She who was then, for now it seems I pretend 

And under it urges to leap out of me beating, and I hear

The rising warning of the chorus, a reach for a blank slate 

For bees carrying honey before death

The flower dried up on the page, held tightly, flattened, etched

Injected with torpid tranquility and chamomile tea over floury pale sands rolling across plains where world war bunkers sleep and you 

Forget me. And 

The vertigo of unreality 

Disembarked in me completely.

The Ruins of an Old German WWII Bunker on La Torche Beach in Brittany from Freepix.