THE TIDE OF PONY PASTURE

TREY HALL

Her fingers paint muddy specters as the ghost of de Kooning’s woman watches from an owl’s nesting. A blue winged teal’s trill lullabies dreams towards waters edge while I walk alone remembering the Gibbous wax of her touch. Malachite moss of moonstone riptides held our toes upon the granite shelf. We would become the river of Midnight’s obsidian skyline, shimmering upon lapis algae. My mahogany neck sings satin, caressing the moon’s tiger eye stare, golden I remember Her breath is waning, flowing with the river’s pulse, bubbling hue of Mary Heilmann’s brushstrokes touch silver lining Ovangkol bodies of luster. Our bodies naked painting the canvas.